


Betray My Name

by spooky_blue



Category: Warcraft (2016), World of Warcraft
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Everyone is a bad guy, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LionTrust, M/M, Raventrust, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8593129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spooky_blue/pseuds/spooky_blue
Summary: Living on the streets of Stormwind, runaway mage Khadgar finds himself dragged against his will into the schemes of the powerful. Contains: some smut, non-graphic violence, implied/referenced past trauma.  I'll update tags as the story progresses so keep an eye on that.





	1. Chapter One

The late afternoon sun was beaming down in the marketplace with little warming effect.  Khadgar sat against the relative protection of a stone building, trying to conserve as much energy as he could.  Next to him, uncomfortably close but providing a source of warmth, sat a smaller child.  Probably in her ninth year or so, Stapa was even dirtier than Khadgar was.  Slender, with a mass of dark curls, a dark complexion, and a perpetually runny nose, Stapa was still young enough to still pass for a boy. 

Nobody paid the pair much mind as the marketplace began to quiet.  They were waiting patiently for the day to wind down, when the sellers would close their stalls for the night.  Oftentimes, old produce or nearly-spoiled foods could be bought for coppers, which was all that Khadgar could spare.

Stapa shifted next to him, nudging his shoulder as a fish hawker approached.  The old woman was calling out without much gusto, “Fish sticks!  Fish on a stick.  Fish sticks!” The fish’ker waved a handful of the sticks in the air as she walked, letting the aromatic scent of dried, salted fish drift through the marketplace.

Khadgar didn’t have to look down to know that Stapa’s eyes were pleading, her mouth probably watering.  He was hungry, too.  He elbowed her back.  “No.”

“I’m hungry,” Stapa whispered, tugging at his sleeve with her one good hand.  Her other arm had been crushed in an accident, requiring amputation from the forearm down.  She never behaved as though she were maimed, though, as proficient in stealing with one hand as some were with two.

“Stop it, Stapa,” said Khadgar, pushing her away again halfheartedly.  “We don’t have enough money.”

“So?” she asked, her tone flat. “Fish’ker got a lot of sticks.  She won’t miss a few.”

Khadgar sighed.  “We’ll eat later.”  At least, he hoped they would.  It wasn’t Stapa’s fault that she was hungry – it was his.  They hadn’t done well yesterday finding anything to eat except some old bread and meat dug out of a waste-bin, and they’d had to fight off rats to get even those scraps.

“I’m hungry now, Khadgar,” Stapa pleaded.  Now he looked down at her, taking in the snot crusting under her nose, the brown eyes made even larger by her too-skinny face.  He fucking hated taking care of children.  He couldn’t even take care of himself most days.  But when he’d found her, shivering and alone, he couldn’t just walk away.  He’d taken her to the tiny space he called home and cared for her ever since.  More than twice her age, she looked at him as though he were a hero.  It killed him to let her down.

He sighed again.  _Damn it._ “Ok.  Be quick.  Meet me in Wayside.”  He stood, stretching the stiffness from his neck and walking nonchalantly away from the fish’ker.  Stapa stood as well, drifting silently into the market.  She had an uncanny ability to disappear when she wanted to.  He lost sight of her in moments.  Good.  She’d make a good rogue someday, he thought, with a little training and a dagger.

Turning, Khadgar scanned the marketplace as if looking for someone.  “Dennzial!” he called out, making sure his voice carried. “Dennzial, wait for me!”  He jostled quickly across the path, weaving between two women carrying baskets of laundry, ducking past a fruit stand, and bumping square into the fish’ker. Predictably, she stumbled, nearly dropping her tray of wares and cursing. 

“Mind where you’re going, filthy street rat!” she snapped, trying to retain her balance.  Khadgar pulled at her distractedly, as if he were helping her rise while still looking for his fictional friend.  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see you there…”

The hawker slapped his hands away, raining down ineffective blows as he backed away.  “You’ve ruined my fish, brat.  Are you going to pay for this?”

Khadgar ducked her blows easily, hands up to show he meant no harm. “I’m sorry,” he said again, edging further away, preparing to sprint across the marketplace and rendezvous with Stapa in the nearby alley.  “It was an accident, ma’am.” Stapa, of course, had crept close during the scuffle and stuffed several of the dropped fish sticks into her blouse before running away at full tilt.

Before he could move, Khadgar felt a heavy hand gripping his collar.  _Shit._

“How much does he owe you, madam fish’ker?” The man spoke with quiet authority that calmed the squawking vendor. 

“Ten silver and half,” she grunted, eyeing the man.  “Spoiled near half my tray, he did.”

Khadgar rolled his eyes.  No more than a handful of sticks had fallen. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, twisting around to get a look at the man who still held his collar.  Khadgar gulped, recognizing one of Stormwind’s guards.  Off-duty, but still a potential threat.  Khadgar avoided guards like the plague.  They were nothing but trouble for street dwellers like himself.

“Here,” said the man, passing the hawker some coins from his purse.  “That should make you whole.”

“He did that on purpose,” she accused, taking the money.  “No-good street trash.”

“He said it was an accident.  You’ve been paid.”  The guard’s tone left no room for argument.  “Good day, fish’ker.”  Seeing she would get no more coin from Khadgar’s unexpected benefactor, the hawker moved away, still muttering under her breath.

Keeping his hand on Khadgar’s collar, the man led the way across the marketplace and down several alleys.  Stopping in a quiet turnout, he released his grip and roughly pushed Khadgar to the ground.  Sharp, dark eyes raked over him.  “That was foolish,” the guard said at last.  “Stealing in broad daylight?”

“I wasn’t stealing,” Khadgar said darkly.  “Fish’ker ought to look where she’s going.”  _Fucking guards._  

“No, _you_ weren’t stealing, but your little friend was.”  The man grinned at him unpleasantly.  “Set her up nice and neat you did.  So.  Not a thief, hm?”  He squatted down so their faces were level.  “How _do_ you make your living on the streets, boy?”

Khadgar’s mouth tightened.  Guard or no guard, this man had no right to question him.  He’d done nothing wrong.  Seeing the other’s displeasure at his silence, he answered reluctantly, “I work at a washing house.  In the trade district.”  It was almost true, too.  He did odd jobs for the wash house, but they didn’t need him for regular work.  If he had a proper job, he wouldn’t be hustling fish’kers in the marketplace and they both knew it.

The guard reached out and trailed his hand across Khadgar’s jaw, settling on his throat.  The grip was uncomfortably tight. “Oh?  And what else do you do?”

“Odd jobs,” Khadgar wheezed.  “We’re not beggars.”

“So she _was_ your accomplice,” he said, smiling.  “And you’re a working lad, eh?  Looking for work now, are you?”  The grip on Khadgar’s throat tightened. 

“Fuck off,” Khadgar snarled, trying to push down the knot of fear growing in his stomach. He had dealt with plenty of bullies before.  The best thing he could do was to show no weakness. “I don’t work the streets.”

“No?”  The guard seemed amused.  “What’s the going rate?  Twenty silver?  I just gave half that to the fish’ker for your debt.”

“I don’t want your money.”  Khadgar suddenly glanced beyond the man’s shoulder, as if looking at someone down the alley.  The guard looked back reflexively, and Khadgar kicked viciously as he threw himself to the side, scrambling to crawl away.  The guard’s fist switftly met his jaw, knocking him down and snapping his head against the wall. 

“Don’t be stupid,” growled the guard, aiming another blow at his torso. Pain blossomed in his ribs and Khadgar cried out, slumping over against the wall.  Breathing was now causing a sharp pain in his chest, and he thought that something was possibly broken.  His eyes grew wide as the man stood up and began to unbuckle his pants.  “You owe me.”

_No, this can’t be happening.  Please, no._

“I know who you are,” Khadgar whispered in desperation, trying to catch his breath.  The guard stopped his movements, frowning.  “You’re a Stormwind guard.  I’ve seen you on the docks.”  Gaining courage, he continued, “If you touch me, I’ll tell the watch commander…” His voice trailed away as the man began to laugh.  The ugly sound made Khadgar’s skin crawl.

“So you knowingly assaulted a guard, then?  Tsk.”  The guard finished opening his pants and began to feel himself under the cloth.  “Do you want me to take you in?  What’ll they give you for assaulting a guard? Stealing, too.  Twenty lashes?  Twelve weeks in prison?  If you’re lucky.”  His eyes were hard and sharp, his voice low.  “Now.” He crouched again, reaching for Khadgar’s wrist and pulling his hand into his pants, moving unwilling fingers against the hardness there. “You want to get fucked, or do you suck dick?”  His knee moved suggestively against Khadgar’s thigh.

Khadgar breathed heavily, his mind racing.  An all-too-familiar feeling of helplessness was coming over him.  He couldn’t physically overpower the guard; he couldn’t run away.  He was running out of options. He opened his mouth, about to cry out for help even though the alley seemed abandoned, but the guard’s hand clapped over his face. 

“Shhh…” soothed the guard.  “Listen.  You think I don’t know who _you_ are?”  Khadgar stared at him, eyes wide.  “I’ve seen you on the docks, too.”  The voice was mocking.  “I know you don’t run with any of the street gangs.  You’re alone, boy.  I could kill you right here and nobody would ever care.”

This was true. Khadgar moaned helplessly and squirmed against the grip on his face.  Two hot tears leaked down his cheeks, causing the guard to smile at his apparent distress.  “Nobody but that little gimp what follows you around.  Do you care about her?”  The hand tightened. “Yes?”

Khadgar gave the barest nod.  _Not Stapa.  Leave her alone._

“I know you do.  Taking care of little beggars.  You’re a good lad, aren’t you?” The hand moved cautiously away from his face.  “That’s why I know you aren’t going to do anything stupid.  Like call for help or try to get away.  Because if you do, I’ll find her.”  Khadgar shivered involuntarily at the rest of his unspoken threat.  “Do you want me to hurt her instead?

Bitterly, Khadgar shook his head from side to side.

“Good.  Drop your pants.”

Could he do this?  _No.  I can’t.  I have to.  For Stapa._

“Alright,” he whispered, spreading his hands wide, defensively.  “Let me stand up.”

The guard moved back, giving him a little room.  Khadgar slowly started to rise, reaching reluctantly for the waistband of his pants, loosening the ties and sliding them towards his hipbones.  The guard’s dark eyes followed his movements, leering.  Then Khadgar snapped his wrists up, shouting a word of power as he reached for the arcane, and threw his hastily woven spell at the man.  There was a flash of azure light that dissipated into a puff of smoke, revealing a very confused-looking sheep blocking the alcove. 

Man and beast stared at each other for a heartbeat, then Khadgar was grunting, pushing at the sheep, trying to move it out of his way.  The guard seemed to be keeping his wits about him much better than most people Khadgar had sheeped – which wasn’t many, really – and was leaning its weight against him, bleating angrily as it butted at him with its head. 

Falling backward, Khadgar yelped as the sheep made contact with his painful ribs and kicked back instinctively. His foot landed with a dull thud on the sheep’s hind leg, and with another puff of bluish-grey smoke, the human guard reappeared. 

_Shit.  Oops._

The spell was only good for about a minute, and only if the polymorphed person was left alone.  Perversely, any interference with the sheep would cancel the spell, which Khadgar had known but had momentarily forgotten in his haste to escape.  It had been a long time since he did any spellcasting, anyway.  He was out of practice. 

Khadgar opened his mouth to call another spell, but the guard slammed him into the wall again before he could speak the words, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through his body.  Blows followed, striking his face and head and torso.  Falling to his knees, Khadgar’s hands defensively covered his head.  The guard pushed him down roughly, gripping his neck and grinding his face into the ground.

“So,” panted the guard, “You’re a mage.”

There was a tearing sound and Khadgar felt his shirt being ripped.  The guard wadded the cloth into Khadgar’s mouth, wrapping another strip that might have been a handkerchief around his face to secure the gag in place.  There was a clink of metal, then Khadgar felt his wrists being bound tightly behind his back.

_Of course this guard is the type of asshole that carries cuffs when he’s off duty._

The guard flipped him over and stared into his face.  Fingers played across his jaw again, sending a shudder down his body. 

“You should have let me fuck you, boy.” The guard’s face was hard.  The smile on his face didn’t go past his teeth.  “You’re worth more than that now.”  Jerking Khadgar to his feet, the guard wrapped his own rough, brown cloak around his prisoner, drawing the concealing hood downward over his face.  “Keep your head down and your feet moving.  Let’s go.”

Khadgar stumbled along dizzily under the guard’s iron-strong grip on his shoulder.  He wasn’t sure how this situation could get any worse, but was afraid he was about to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

The table was solid wood beneath Khadgar’s bare back.  Leather straps crossed his body so securely on the table that he couldn’t move more than a fraction in any direction.  The guard’s hasty cloth gag had been removed and replaced with something smooth that filled his mouth completely.  Khadgar didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, but it was long enough that he’d finally wet himself from need.

Khadgar forced himself to breathe slowly, pushing the air almost meditatively in and out of the lower parts of his chest.  He needed to stay calm.  Panicking wouldn’t help.  Much of the fight had already left him, partly from the assault in the alleyway but also from exhaustion.  He hadn’t eaten or drank anything for hours.  The guard had led him on a twisting, winding route through Stormwind through unsavory parts of the city he hadn’t known existed.  He’d been dragged indoors and locked in a dark, quiet musty room – probably a root cellar.   Some hours later, different voices came to take him away by carriage.   He must have passed out.  Coming to consciousness on the table, Khadgar was completely disoriented.

Turning slightly to the right or left, Khadgar could see clear tubes running away from his body on either side, trailing away from somewhere in his midsection. That explained the deep, pinching pain at each elbow – hypodermic needles.  The tubes were filled with a light blue substance that glowed faintly. 

_Mana._

They were draining him of mana essence. 

Mana-letting was very dangerous – and very illegal. Khadgar had heard of such things, of course, spoken in hushed whispers by other apprentice mages back in Dalaran where he used to study the arcane.  They suck the mana out of you, it was said.  Milk it right out of your body.  Once extracted, the essence could be distilled into a very potent substance.  It could be used by unscrupulous alchemists to create powerful potions, or by enchanters to create arcane-enhanced devices; it could be taken orally for an addicting arcane high or spread on the body for sensual enhancement.

Many of the essence-based serums were highly addictive, and therefore illegal in most civilized realms.  The extraction procedure was also dangerous, sapping both the donor’s energy levels and access to the arcane.  Khadgar knew that mana-essence was intrinsically bound to the mage’s life-force – draining one inevitably drained the other, leaving behind a shell of a person after extensive letting.

Over and over he asked himself uselessly, _How can this evil exist in Stormwind?_

As the mana dripped out of his veins, Khadgar felt himself growing colder and more tired by the moment.  He drifted away into a hazy semi-consciousness and found relief in the stupor that dulled his senses until he no longer cared about the hunger in his belly, the assault in the alleyway, or his captivity.  Even Stapa became a distant blur, alone and waiting patiently in Wayside Alley for her companion that would not arrive.

_Stapa.  Alone.  Waiting._

Letting his eyes shut against that image, Khadgar drifted into the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_When Khadgar had been living on the streets with Stapa, he’d thought their life was pretty bleak.  Living in a tiny room together, they’d survived on whatever odd jobs he could find and whatever Stapa could steal.  Never warm enough, never full enough, they’d been dirty and poor.   Still, they’d had each other.  And their freedom._

_Strangely, now that his belly was full and his body was warm, he wanted nothing more than to be back on the streets of Stormwind._

_It took a few days before Khadgar realized he was a slave.  After the first procedure was complete, he was taken from the table and washed clean.  Someone dressed him in warm clothing.  He was led to a small room and given food and blankets.  He’d mostly slept, then, waking only for meals or to piss in the chamber pot.  By the time he started feeling more alert, they came for him again.  The first procedure had been the worst – as he became increasingly mana-weakened, a gag was no longer necessary, and the needle was inserted into one arm instead of both._

_After the first few days in isolation, Khadgar was moved to a communal area with the other mana-slaves. His first impression was that he was in some sort of nursery.  A row of low beds lined one side of the room, neatly made with mismatched blankets.  There were colorful wooden blocks, the type that children played with, and stuffed dolls and cushions on the floor._

_The nursery had several occupants, none of which paid him any mind. The hooded person who initially guided Khadgar into the room took him from person to person, pointing at mouths and hands of the other companions.  Still in a stupor, it took several moments for Khadgar to realize that the hood was showing him severed tongues and removed fingers – presumably to prevent those trained in the arcane from attempting any spell-casting between letting sessions.  It was an effective deterrent, and he quickly developed a habit of appearing even more weakened than he truly was._

_Khadgar assigned everyone names, because no one seemed to have a name of their own. No one cared any longer.  There was Big, a lanky, middle-aged man that did nothing but hide red blocks under his mattress and moan between lettings – he was missing both fingers and tongue, relying on others to feed him; Small, a young boy with some clearly delayed mental development and body parts intact.  There was Girl, who fought the procedure and the other residents like a wildcat and spent most of her free time between lettings in restraints, bound to a bed at the end of the room._

_And there was old Oma, Khadgar’s favorite. Most of the others were completely lethargic, but she moved restlessly around the room, continually straightening blankets and putting away things that other people had taken out. She was ancient, toothless, and hummed tunelessly whenever she was awake.  Every now and then he thought there might be some remnant of whomever she was before behind those ancient eyes, when she would smile at him and smooth his hair carefully, tutting over the bruises on his arms._

_At first Khadgar wondered why no one tried to escape or call for help, and he was frustrated by his companion's lethargy. Eventually, though, as the mana-letting sapped his strength and will, he found himself falling into the same stupor as his companions.  He would sleep, or lie awake in his cot without a coherent thought in his mind, or play blocks with Small, towering the wooden shapes higher and higher and letting Small push them over._

_And so it went – back to the mana-letting table, back to the room._

_Days passed innumerable.  Khadgar began to forget life before the room._

\--

As of late, it seemed as though the sessions were getting shorter.  He hoped that meant he was running out of mana, drying out like a cornhusk left to wither in the sun.  The pain in his arms was relentless.  The throbbing ache was worst after each time on the table, gradually fading to a dull ache only to return at the next session.  His body became covered with bruises – first his arms, then hands, and even ankles as his captors searched for veins that were well enough to be stuck.

Khadgar wondered dully what they would do with him if he stopped producing mana.  Killed, most likely.  His only hope was that he had no idea who his captors were.  They invariably wore hoods or veils to shield their faces.  He wasn’t sure that they’d protect their identities from someone they intended to dispose of.  Most days, though, he didn’t really care what happened.

\--

The monotony was interrupted when Khadgar was led from the nursery, not to the letting room as he expected, but into a small, private room that he’d never seen before.  Placed in a padded velvet chair, he was left alone with a blanket.  Not sure what was transpiring but too weary to care, Khadgar slumped into the richness of the velvet and let himself doze lightly. 

Khadgar’s eyes flickered towards the door as it swung open and one of the hooded captors walked in, followed by an older man who was not hooded.  An outsider.  _Interesting,_ he thought with a shadow of his former curiosity.  The old man had short, white hair and carried himself very upright.  He was dressed in robes of burgundy and gray that while plain, were richly made.

“This stock is of the caliber you seek,” murmured the hood, gesturing at Khadgar.  “As you have seen from the sample, his flow is among the highest quality available on the markets.”

“Has he any mental deficiencies?  Physical deformities?”

“None, milord.  He has not been cut.”

_Meaning my tongue and fingers,_ Khadgar knew.  For that he was continuously grateful.  Many of his more resistant companions in the nursery had required stronger measures of control. 

“May I examine…?”  At the hood’s nod, the old man approached the chair cautiously, kneeling down beside Khadgar and touching his forehead.  Khadgar blinked at him listlessly.  His eyelids were pulled up, then the man opened his mouth and looked inside, feeling along his gums. 

“Can you sit up?” the man asked, not waiting for an answer before gently pulling Khadgar upright and running gentle hands under his tunic to feel his chest and ribs.  He pushed back Khadgar’s sleeves, his breath hissing in surprise at the mottled bruises running up and down.  Turning to the captor, he said accusingly, “He’s lethargic.  You’ve been milking him dry.”

The figure waved one had apologetically.  “He is young and powerful.  His fluid is much sought after.  We have great demand to fulfill.”

“If you keep this up, you won’t be able to fulfill any of it,” the man said sourly.  “How long have you had him?”

“Near two years, milord.”

“And the production has been steady?”

Again the hood nodded.  “Yes.  You may review the charts if desired.”  A small hesitation.  “The flow has recently begun to slow, but he still has many more-”

“Because you’re killing him,” interrupted the old man.  “You don’t know how to tame a mage unless you bleed him dry every time, do you?” He shook his head and stood, tapping his fingertips together.  “Where did he come from?”

“A street child,” the hood replied simply.  “He has no connections.”

The old man grunted. “And his personality?  Is he compliant?”

The hood stared blankly. “He is very passive, very docile.  Sometimes he wets himself, but we never have to beat him.  He does what is told.  You will extract much flow from him.”

Khadgar’s foggy mind listened to this description of himself as the old man and the hood began discussing what sounded like price and terms.  He wondered when it had become accurate.  Never in his life had he been described as docile.  He realized that the hooded capturers had no idea what his personality was.  They merely kept him in such a weakened state that it didn’t matter. 

As for pissing himself, what else was he supposed to do when he was taken from the nursery, usually without warning, and strapped to a wooden table for hours?  He used to hold back the urge as long as he could, but at some point stopped caring.  It didn’t matter.  They would clean him anyway, washing his hair and body after each letting.

The discussion ended, and a small but heavy bag exchanged hands.  The hooded figure bowed low, and left the room.

Khadgar realized, with very slight interest, that he had just been sold.  To his surprise, the old man was sketching runes onto the floor with a piece of chalk, then casting what appeared to be an old-fashioned teleportation spell. 

_He’s a mage?  Mages buying other mages?_  Disgust welled in Khadgar’s chest.

With surprising strength, the man lifted Khadgar’s unresisting form and carried him, childlike, into the center of the portal.  Khadgar felt the familiar hum of arcane magic surrounding his body – then the sitting room winked out of existence.


	4. Chapter 4

The old mage’s teleportation spell dropped them squarely in the middle of a courtyard.  Nestled against the soft robes, Khadgar tried to look around without actually having to move his head, which seemed to weigh a thousand stones.  An opulent courtyard indeed.  Whomever had bought him must be very wealthy and powerful.

A cry told him they’d been noticed, then servants hurried forward to relieve the old man of his burden.  Khadgar stood unsteadily, swaying slightly between the two men who now held him on either side.

“Moroes!  You’ve returned,” called a man, striding towards them with authority.  Khadgar’s weary eyes took in a middle-aged man with longish, sandy brown hair.  He was built like a warrior and had a piercing blue stare. 

“Sir Lothar,” Moroes nodded in greeting. 

_Lothar?  Why do I know that name?_   Khadgar thought madly for a moment, trying to remember.  Then it came to him.  _Sir Anduin Lothar.  The Lion of Azeroth._   Everyone knew the commander of the Stormwind army.  Shock left him speechless, almost thoughtless.  Hooded monsters trafficking humans in the underbelly of Stormwind?  That he could understand.  Slaves being paraded through a courtyard in front of the King’s commander?  It was incomprehensible.

“This is the…source…you were looking for?” asked Lothar.

Moroes nodded. 

“Doesn’t look like much,” Lothar remarked, eyes darting quickly over Khadgar’s wasted frame.

“He’s very weak,” said Moroes.  “They over-drained him.”

“Hm.  Skinny.”  Moving closer, Lothar put one hand under Khadgar’s chin and looked into his eyes.  “Pretty face, though.”  A thumb trailed across his lips.

“Fuck you,” Khadgar whispered.  These were the first words he’d spoken in months, and his throat felt rough.

Lothar grinned, using his hand to turn Khadgar’s head from side to side.  “Have you got a name?” he asked.

Khadgar leaned forward and spat. At that close range his projectile was right on target.  To his credit, Lothar didn’t flinch.  Slowly wiping the saliva from his face, he turned to Moroes and said sharply, “Get him inside.  Medivh is waiting.”

A fresh wave of dismay cascaded over Khadgar.  His head moved jerkily towards Moroes.  “The Guardian?” he whispered.  When the old man nodded, Khadgar decided there was some strength left in his limbs after all.  He struggled against the servants holding him upright.  “Let go!” he cried.  Surprised at the outburst, they did.  “Rya’alavos-” he began, calling for the trickle of arcane that still flowed in his veins and summoning the first spell that came to mind.  Instead of the fireball that he’d tried to weave, disappointingly small sparks sputtered uncertainly across his palms.

Not waiting for the spell to gain strength, Lothar moved forward and firmly gripped his face with a hand, smothering Khadgar’s verbal cast.  Strong arms wrapped around his body from behind, and the commander forced him towards the building, half pushing and half carrying.  “None of that, spell-chucker,” Lothar spoke into his ear.  Lothar’s fingers were digging painfully into Khadgar’s arm, and he grunted in protest against the hand across his face.  Calling back to Moroes over his shoulder, Lothar said irritably, “I thought you said he was tame.”

Moroes seemed unconcerned by Khadgar’s attempted assault.  “A weakened mage is not a mage tamed, Lothar.”      

Khadgar used this opportunity to reinforce Moroes’ words by biting Lothar’s hand that still covered his mouth, eliciting curses from the commander as he was dragged inside.  Lothar dropped him on the floor, then slapped his face with an open hand.  “Enough, mage,” he growled.

Collapsed under the blow, Khadgar decided to stay on the floor, his head ringing.

“Careful, Anduin,” said a new voice.  “I need him in one piece.” 

“Little shit bit me,” Lothar replied defensively.  “And he tried to call down hellfire out there.  He’s not as sweet as he looks, Medivh,” he added with a touch of warning.  “I think he’s feigning.”  Lothar prodded Khadgar’s ribs with a boot.  “Get up.”

The hem of a red-colored robe approached Khadgar’s narrow field of vison on the floor.  A hand touched his temples, then felt his wrist where the skin was thin.  “No, my friend, he is not pretending.  He is very unwell.”  The Guardian’s voice was soft and mesmerizing. 

Khadgar felt Lothar’s rough hands pulling him up, dumping him unceremoniously on a low couch in the hall.  The Guardian Medivh sat gracefully beside him.  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Khadgar hesitated, then nodded.  “The Guardian,” he said. 

“Do you know why you are here?”

This time, he shook his head. Then, with a shadow of anger, he accused, “Mana slave.  You bought me.”

“Yes, I bought you,” Medivh agreed evenly.  “You have something that I need.”  Pulling a small bottle from his robe, he tapped the glass with one fingernail.  Inside, liquid glowed bright blue.  “To use the street vernacular…your ‘flow.’  Your mana essence.  Your connection to the arcane.  I need it.”

“It’s my mana,” Khadgar whispered.  He paused.  “ _I_ need it.” 

“Azeroth needs it more,” said Medivh, reaching across the couch and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “How long have you been in captivity?”  Khadgar could only shrug in response.

“He’s been with the cultists approximately two years, Guardian,” interjected Moroes.  “Before that is uncertain.”

“Then you don’t know,” said Medivh.

Khadgar managed to raise his eyebrows in question.  _Don’t know what,_ he wondered wearily.

“We’re at war,” Lothar snapped.  “Invasion.  Monsters called ‘orcs,’ from another realm.  The Guardian has been summoned to defend Azeroth against this foe.”

 “And defend it I shall,” said Medivh smoothly.  “However, I find myself facing…certain…deficiencies. Candidly, I am unwell.” 

Khadgar was having trouble following the conversation and found himself fading in and out as Medivh continued.   The guardian was explaining that mana-essence wouldn’t cure his illness.  Moroes had been brewing medicine for him, getting flow from the dark market.  “…highest potency we’ve seen.”  Medivh paused.  “I sent Moroes to obtain the source.”

Khadgar blinked stupidly.  That last part seemed important.  He tried to focus on Medivh’s words.

“We’ve been trying to find you for months,” Moroes interjected softly.

“Your former owners were running a business,” Medivh went on.  “They thought strictly of profit and not of your health.  Further, we believed they were thinning the essence to stretch said profit.”  Moroes nodded in agreement.  “Now,” Medivh said, leaning forward and looking into Khadgar’s face, “I care about your well-being.  I don’t want to milk you dry.  But I need your essence, un-watered, if I am to continue defending Azeroth.”

“This is our arrangement.  Mana-letting will continue, but never to depletion.  Your essence is very powerful, very pure.  It doesn’t take very much to keep me strong.  Moroes will oversee the extraction.  Your full compliance is required.  We will be kind to you, if you do not take advantage of our kindness.”  The Guardian’s face became very serious.  “Your comfort is irrelevant to my needs; nonetheless, I find myself loathe to make you uncomfortable.  Keep this well in your mind.”

Medivh stood, rising smooth from the couch.  “Do you understand what I’ve told you?”  Khadgar nodded. “Do you agree?”  Another helpless nod.  What else could he say?  The Guardian sighed with apparent relief, as if there had truly been a question of negotiation. “Then I am pleased.  Moroes, please see that he is settled in my chamber.”

Moving for the door, Medivh paused, then looked back at the couch.  “What is your name?”

Khadgar hesitated.  He was reluctant to give his own name, not knowing what it might mean to the Guardian, but he was too tired to think of a lie.  “Khadgar,” he said at last, forcing himself to meet Medivh’s stare.

Medivh frowned, exchanging a quick glance with Moroes, but did not comment as he left the room.  Moroes followed after a moment, presumably to make preparations or knock the eavesdropping servants’ heads together, leaving Khadgar alone with Lothar.  The commander was sucking thoughtfully at his finger where Khadgar had bitten and drawn blood.

“So, they milked you for mana,” Lothar said conversationally, eyes flickering across Khadgar again.  “What does that entail, exactly?” He quirked an eyebrow suggestively

Khadgar glared at him.  “Large needles,” he said, finding the quality of his voice was improving with use.  “Enchanted.  Don’t know exactly.”  He turned one hand to show Lothar the bruises.

“Hm.” Lothar sounded disappointed.  “What else did you do for them?  Did they bed you?”

“No,” snorted Khadgar.  “I’m not a sex slave.”  This was not strictly true.  Khadgar had belonged to the cultists and they had not limited their ownership of his body to extraction of mana.  Buried in the darker recesses of his mind were fragments of memories that if too closely examined might threaten to shatter him completely.  However, he saw no reason to encourage the commander’s train of thought.

“Could be,” Lothar shrugged. “Nice face for it.”  As Khadgar cursed him colorfully, he laughed.  “Nice personality, too.  Feisty.  I like it.”  He leaned closer, his face almost brushing Khadgar’s.  “I think I’d like to bed you, spell-chucker.  Maybe we’ll see what your master says, hm?”

Moroes interrupted whatever venomous retort Khadgar was about to spit by returning with two servants in tow.  “Come now, young mage.”  He looked disapprovingly at Lothar, although he had no way of knowing what their conversation had entailed.  “You need to rest.  Follow me.”

“Wait.”  Lothar pushed his hand into the middle of Khadgar’s chest, keeping him fixed on the couch. “Are you completely clear regarding the Guardian’s expectations?”

Khadgar shrugged assent, realizing belatedly that this was not the response that Lothar was looking for.  The hand on his chest pushed harder, forcing Khadgar backward until there was nowhere to go and he was forced to breathe in shallow sips.

“Let me make this very clear.”  Lothar’s eyes were twin pools of ice.  “You now exist to serve the Guardian.  Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll do it.” 

Khadgar looked pleadingly over to Moroes for help, who was watching with thinned lips, but made no move to intervene.  Lothar cuffed the side of Khadgar’s face in response.  “Don’t look at him.  Look at me.  You stay as long as the Guardian needs you to stay.  If you defy him in any manner, you’ll answer to me.”  Lothar cuffed him again.  Khadgar’s head was beginning to spin.  “If you hurt him, if you try to leave, I will find you.”

Khadgar sat mesmerized like a snake before a charmer as Lothar listed the inventive and painful ways he would personally ensure Khadgar’s obedience to the Guardian.  Finally when Khadgar thought he might pass out from the lack of air, Lothar gave him a final shake and grunted.  “Now do you understand, mage?”

This time, Khadgar forced himself to respond verbally and emphatically.  “Yes.  I understand.” 

“Good.”  Satisfied, Lothar stood back.

Khadgar left the room, supported again by the servants, without a backwards glance.  He hoped he never saw Commander Lothar again.


	5. Chapter 5

Moroes hovered at the edge of Khadgar’s awareness, painstakingly tending to the mana-collecting device on the floor.   The extraction procedure was very different under the old mage’s care.  There were no leather straps binding Khadgar to the table, and he was resting near to the fire to replace the warmth that seeped from his body along with the mana-essence.  This was their third extraction together, and the two had already developed a sort of routine.  Khadgar found that Moroes was adept at communicating with the slightest of touches, or the barest nods of his head.  He was a man of few words, which suited Khadgar just fine.  He rather liked Moroes.

The procedure was nearly over, and Moroes was deftly removing the needle from his arm and wrapping a bandage when the door opened.

Pushing back at the exhaustion that always accompanied mana-letting, Khadgar’s eyes fluttered open as the Guardian Medivh entered the chamber, followed by Commander Lothar.  Khadgar hadn’t seen the Guardian since their first meeting, and he was not expecting to see the commander again.  Surely the commander had more pressing duties than following Medivh around like an over-zealous guard dog.

“Moroes,” said Medivh sounding surprised.  “Are we interrupting?”

“We were just finishing.  I was not expecting your return this early,” replied Moroes with a hint of reproach.  He stood uncertainly with a jar of salve in hand.  “Khadgar likes to rest be the fire,” he explained.  “It helps with the chill.  I can move him to his room, if you wish…?”

“No, let him be,” said Medivh distractedly.  “You may go.”  He leaned his staff against the wall and hung his cloak on a bedpost.  Commander Lothar had dropped heavily into one of the chairs next to the fire.  Khadgar thought he could physically feel the icy blue eyes moving across his bare skin, and suppressed the urge to cover his chest with the blanket that rested across his hips.  He was too weak to move the blanket, anyway, so he forced himself to refrain from flinching.

Moroes hesitated, exchanging a glance with Khadgar. 

“It’s alright,” Khadgar said softly, nodding at the jar still in Moroes’ grasp.  “I don’t need it.”

Medivh looked over sharply at the brief exchange.  “What?”

“The warming salve, Guardian,” said Moroes almost apologetically.

“I’ll do it,” said Medivh with a shrug.  “On his chest?  Yes?”

Moroes nodded affirmation. 

“Very well.  I can handle that.” Medivh seemed tired and impatient, and Khadgar was grateful when Moroes took his leave.  He didn’t want Moroes to go and leave him alone with the pair, but anything to reduce the chill of tension that had crept into the room was welcome.  Clearly, the Guardian was used to quick and complete obedience. 

Khadgar’s eyes drifted shut again against his will.  True to his word, Medivh had not allowed Khadgar to be drained completely again.  Instead, Moroes would draw on his resources more frequently, but in lesser quantities.  He explained to Khadgar that his intention was to never let the mana essence drop below ten percent – this would give Khadgar enough energy to survive on.  Between sessions, it might get as high as thirty or forty percent.  Khadgar felt exceedingly better, although he was still tired and drawn.

It was impossible to have large portions of your essential resources drained away without crippling exhaustion, it seemed.  An unfortunate side effect, Moroes said humorlessly.  _No shit,_ Khadgar had thought. 

He listened to the murmur of voices, straining to follow the conversation.  They were discussing a captive named Garona, someone who spoke the orc language.  Perhaps even an orc herself?  Yes.  There was some difficulty in understanding her, apparently, and linguists were working round the clock to extract what they could from her language and teach her the common tongue in Stormwind.  The information she could provide would be invaluable. Khadgar longed for the opportunity to see this orc, to hear her speak and learn of her world.  He had not yet left the Guardian’s rooms, but hoped for the opportunity.

Khadgar started when the soft fingers brushed across his chest and forced his heavy eyes open in alarm.  Medivh stood above him, sleeves pushed back and the jar of salve in one hand.  Dipping his fingertips into the thick paste, Medivh began to slowly work the stuff across Khagar’s chest, moving with the careful gracefulness that Khadgar was beginning to realize was characteristic. 

With effort, Khadgar regulated his breathing again, which had quickened when Medivh’s touch startled him.  He even began to relax as the touch deepened, becoming firm strokes that moved from shoulder to navel.  The salve warmed quickly on his skin, creating a comfortable glow that lulled him into a place of complete calm.  Medivh was speaking, but he didn’t think the words were direct at him, so he allowed himself to drift away under the sensations. 

When the touch ran over his groin, Khadgar thought his heart stopped in his chest. Catching his breath in a hitch, he stiffened on the table.

“Anduin,” said Medivh reproachfully.

“I’m just looking, Medivh,” replied the commander.  His hand continued to rest lightly against the softness under Khadgar’s pants, moving slowly as he studied the area with his fingers.  “Aren’t you curious?  Or have you already-”

“He’s not well,” Medivh snapped.  “Besides, I-”

Almost before he knew what was happening, Khadgar’s bladder released.  Lothar swore as he jerked away from the rapidly growing dampness, fluid spilling off the table and onto the rug. Khadgar was trembling slightly, frightened to the core by what Lothar might do him for this act of defiance.  Truthfully, he hadn’t consciously meant to do it, but old habits were hard to break.

Medivh sighed.

“That little shit!”

“It’s an effect of the letting, Anduin,” said Medivh with great patience.  “And I think you frightened him.  Milking mana saps mages of their life-force energy; young Khadgar is very vulnerable right now.  In fact, I don’t think he could move away if he wanted to. Am I right, Khadgar?”

Ashamed by his weakness, Khadgar blinked in response and managed a humble, “Yes, Guardian.”

“You see?  Leave him be, Anduin.”  Ignoring the mess pooling on the floor, Medivh closed the jar of salve and stepped briskly away.  “Come.  We have much to discuss before the briefing tomorrow.”

Lothar gave Khadgar a long, assessing look.  Khadgar met the look evenly, letting the barest hint of a smirk cross his face so the commander could wonder whether it truly was an accident.  He probably shouldn’t be goading this bullying man, but as Moroes had said – a mage weakened was not a mage tamed.  He found that he couldn’t help himself.  A great part of himself longed to be at full strength, to go toe to toe with this warrior and show him exactly what he was dealing with.  For now, he had to be satisfied when Lothar complied with Medivh’s direction with a grunt.

Leaving Khadgar to lie by the fire, the two spoke quietly into the night.  Falling into a light sleep, Khadgar’s pants were nearly dry when he awoke several hours later.  Feeling somewhat stronger, he slipped from the table and made his way slowly to his room, purposefully ignoring the conversing pair.  He would have liked to ask for a steadying hand, but was too proud to ask and be rejected.  Slaves should be unseen and unheard, he reckoned, so he moved with a stubborn kind of dignity. 

Shutting the door, Khadgar sank to his haunches and leaned there, bone-weary inside and out.  The vulnerability he felt was more than physical, and he hated it. 

 _No,_ he decided. He would die before being taken against his will again.  _Never again._


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually when he was well enough, Khadgar spent a great deal of time just moving.  After living cooped up in two small rooms for the past two years, he was enjoying his relative freedom and trying to rebuild his physical strength.  He learned that he was living in the Stormwind keep which explained the richness of the furnishings.  He was officially stationed in a small room inside the Guardian’s own spacious quarters, next door to Moroes.  The old mage was the Guardian’s personal assistant, and had formerly been his castellan when they had resided at Karazhan – a role he would presumably resume after the war was won.  If the war could be won.

Officially, Khadgar did not exist.  Nobody acknowledged his presence as Medivh’s slave, and he eventually realized that was because they did not know.  Perhaps they thought of him as the Guardian’s associate or concubine.  It made little difference to Khadgar, as long as he was left alone.  He was free to wander anywhere he pleased, as long as he stayed within the walls of the keep.  In reality, he rarely saw Medivh except in passing.  The war, and his illness, kept the Guardian busy. 

Except at night sometimes, but that was another matter. 

He wandered through gardens and hallways, exploring every room in the keep that was not barred by guards or locked.  Khadgar’s favorite place was the library, which he discovered after a few weeks of exploration.  It had been years since he had access to such resources – not since he’d run away from the Violet Citadel in Dalaran had he the opportunity to hold a book or scroll in his hands.  It had been nearly four years since he’d left the Order of the Kirin Tor.  A small part of him regretted fleeing his studies.  The majority of him was still glad, although things were not turning out much better at the moment.

And Stapa.  The guilt of abandoning Stapa weighed on Khadgar like an anchor hanging around his neck.  He thought of her often, and wondered if there were some way to pass word to her.  But what could he say?  _I’m looking for a dark little street urchin with one arm.  She might be passing as a boy.  Her name is Stapa and she’s counting on me to care for her._ No, it would be impossible.  There must be hundreds of orphaned children living on the streets. 

After considering his options, Khadgar decided he would slip away for a few hours and try to find her.  He wasn’t supposed to leave the keep, but Moroes was often busy and didn’t keep a close eye on his comings and goings one he had established that Khadgar was well-behaved.  If questioned, he would simply say that he got lost in an interesting book: _“Moroes, did you know that nanostructure in crownthistle extract revealed no adverse side effects in dwarvish cells after twenty-four hours of exposition?  The absence of toxic effects was corroborated with long-time experiments and-  What’s that?  Oh, you’re trying to organize the Guardian’s correspondence?  I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a bother, I’ll go study in my rooms now.”_

It would be that simple. 


	7. Chapter 7

Unfortunately, slipping away from Stormwind keep was not simple.  Although the guards normally paid him no mind, when he tried to leave the grounds through the main gates, he was stopped and questioned.  Someone had apparently passed word that a dark-haired, sickly-looking mage was to stay put.  When he tried convincing them that he’d been permitted to go for a walk, he was told they’d have to verify that with the Commander. 

Rather than argue, Khadgar reluctantly went back inside. The last thing he wanted was for the guards to pass word along to Commander Lothar that he’d been trying to leave.

_Well then._

If he could not get outside, perhaps someone could come inside.

Borrowing some of Medivh’s writing supplies, Khadgar sat down to compose a letter.  He chewed on his lips for a while, trying to think who might be willing to help.  He hadn’t any money, of course, so any help would have to be charity.  Turning over the names of the unsavory characters he’d known in the streets, Khadgar lamented for the first time that he’d never fallen in with any of the many street gangs who lived in Stormwind.  He hadn’t any connections or allies to speak of. Contacting anyone from his previously life in Dalaran was, of course, out of the question.

Well, there was one person.  He wasn’t exactly a friend, but he’d shown Stapa some kindness one day.  The chance was slim, but it would be worth a try.

Finally, he began to write.

_Dear Sir,_

_Some years ago in Stormwind you helped a friend of mine.  Stapa and I are eternally grateful for the kindness you showed to her on the day her arm was crushed by the runaway wagon.  If not for your taking us to the temple and paying for her healing, she might have lost her life and not just her hand._

Khadgar vividly recalled the day – the runaway smithy’s wagon, heavily laden with scrap metal.  Stapa, dancing out of the way in the narrow alley like quicksilver, but not quick enough to avoid the crush of the wagon when it scraped her against the stone wall.  Blood, so much blood, and bone sticking out of her mangled arm.  She’d screamed hoarsely into Khadgar’s shoulder as he carried her, stumbling along the streets, trying to console her that they’d find a healer but knowing he didn’t have the coin to pay for the expensive type of healing she would need.

A young man, only a few years older than Khadgar, had stopped them.  Seeing the desperation in Khadgar’s face and the pain in Stapa’s, he’d quickly taken control of the situation.  They’d ridden to the temple on his horse, Khadgar riding behind and carrying Stapa as they jolted through the streets.  Callan had dismounted and taken Stapa inside, leaving Khadgar to fret on the temple steps.  What felt like an eternity later he’d returned to report.  Stapa would live, but she would lose her mangled hand.  He’d negotiated the healers down to a pittance – two hundred silver pieces – because she was a street urchin.

Khadgar had felt his heart sink as Callan waited for a reply.   Finally he confessed, looking at the ground, “I don’t have any silver.  Just copper.”  Callan had stared in disbelief, as if he could not comprehend someone not having unlimited funds.  Khadgar added in a rush, “I can work, though, if they have need…?”

Muttering that it would not be necessary, Callan had paid for the healing that Khadgar could not afford.  Afterwards, when Stapa walked out of the temple made whole, Callan had taken them to the nearby inn and bought the first proper meal they’d had in a while.   He’d been quiet and shy, not saying much, but Khadgar had gathered that he was a soldier in Stormwind’s army, recently promoted to Corporal.  When it was time to leave, Stapa had thrown her arms around his waist and said he was the nicest person she’d ever met, causing his face to redden. 

Interacting with Callan had temporarily elevated Khadgar’s estimation of those in authority, as he’d been forced to admit that not everyone behind the Stormwind crest was a callous, boot-wearing thug who chased away street dwellers for sport.  Still, Callan had been still fairly new to the army life.  Enough time had passed that Khadgar supposed even one as kind as Callan might have become corrupted by the system. Further, there was no way to know if Callan were even still in the Stormwind army, or if he were even alive, given the war. 

Still, he had to try.

_I write to you now to once again beg your kindness for Stapa’s sake.  Due to an unfortunate turn of events, we have become separated and I am desperate to learn of her wellbeing.  If it please, I humbly plead your assistance in finding whether she is still alive in Stormwind.  If there is anything you can do at all, I would be eternally in your debt._

_Regardless, please accept once again my enduring gratitude for the charity you bestowed upon Stapa and me.  She and I will never forget your actions that day._

_Please send word, in care of Stormwind keep, if you wish to meet._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Khadgar_

Satisfied that the letter conveyed need without suggesting that he was after any kind of money, Khadgar folded it carefully into an envelope and began pondering how he would get it to Callan.  Corresponding with the outside world seemed like something that would be frowned upon, so he would have to get inventive. 

Reluctantly, he realized that he did know someone who could tell him whether Callan was in the army or not – Commander Lothar.  Khadgar couldn’t think of a way to compel Lothar to actually deliver the letter, but at least knowing whether Callan were still in Stormwind would be a start.  If he were still in the army, Khadgar would simply find a way to slip the letter into the outgoing mail that Moroes posted on behalf of the Guardian on occasion.


	8. Chapter 8

One afternoon he sat in the courtyard reading, one of Medivh’s cloaks wrapped tightly against the chill as he chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip.  He was trying to teach himself about theoretical physics – the study of the secular forces that shaped the world.  Not standard reading for mages, perhaps, but he found it fascinating: _“…the central theme is the space-time functional integral or path integral formulation of quantum theory.  This approach is particularly well suited for treating the quantum generalization of friction….”_

“Hello, bookworm,” came a voice directly into his ear.  Khadgar yelped as though he had been struck, jerking forward and actually falling from the bench, his book forgotten somewhere halfway across the courtyard.  He hated being snuck up on from behind.

Lothar sauntered around into his view, seating himself on the bench that Khadgar had recently occupied.  “You look well,” he said with a smirk.  Or perhaps it was meant to be a smile.  Khadgar wasn’t sure if Lothar was capable of smiling properly.  It was true, Khadgar was looking well.  Weeks of rest, good food, and Moroes’ careful ministrations had left a healthy glow in his cheeks that were beginning to fill out again.

Gathering the cloak around himself, Khadgar gingerly climbed to his knees.  Once, such a fall would have been meaningless.  Now, he was a little more fragile, and moved carefully to compensate.  Lothar couldn’t have known, but Khadgar’s side would probably be bruised tomorrow from falling onto the edge of the planter by the bench.  He glowered wordlessly, looking for his book and preparing to leave.

“Stay a minute,” said Lothar, reaching out and grasping his wrist.  To Khadgar’s embarrassment, an involuntary, soft gasp of protest slipped past his mouth.  Lothar was hurting his arm, so he sat reluctantly on the bench.

“Were you born an arsehole?” Khadgar snapped, trying to jerk his wrist away.  “Is this your Light-given talent?” 

Lothar raised his eyebrows, continuing to hold on.  “No,” he replied evenly, “It’s an art perfected over a lifetime of practice.”

“Let go of my arm.”

“Then stay.”

“Fine,” Khadgar hissed, finally reclaiming his wrist. They sat for a moment, the silence building awkwardly for Lothar.  Khadgar didn’t mind.  He’d grown used to silence.  “How’s the war going?” he asked at last, driven by curiosity more than the desire to put Lothar at ease.  “I haven’t heard.”

“Not well,” Lothar admitted.  “The orcs have massed into what they call a ‘horde.’  They’re led by a warlock with some evil magic.  Medivh calls it ‘fel’, and it’s driving him mad how they managed to enter our realm under his very nose.  They came from a place called Draenor.  We think it’s another world.  We’ve lost many troops and our allies are squabbling ineffectively.”  He looked at Khadgar quizzically.  “Hasn’t Medivh said anything to you?”

“I don’t see the Guardian very often,” Khadgar said dismissively.  “Why would he discuss such things with a slave?”

“He speaks very highly of you,” said Lothar, sounding surprised.  “He says you’re intelligent and curious, and a powerful mage.  Your mana is making him stronger than I’ve seen him in months.”

Khadgar eyed Lothar, a small smile appearing at the corner of his mouth despite the tension.  “He said all that?”

“He says you’re a good fuck, too,” grinned Lothar, causing a hot blush to spread across Khadgar’s face.  He hadn’t intended to sleep with the Guardian, but when Medivh came to him the first time, he found that he couldn’t say no. 

Medivh’s weariness was so strong that sometimes it seemed to radiate from him like a halo.  He, too, carried a fragility with him – fighting against all manner of beasts and evil magic, fighting to protect the entire realm, fighting his own illness.  Alone, one man, battling all that.  So when he sought comfort in Khadgar’s arms, Khadgar had taken him in.  Resentfully at first, and then avidly.  All of Khadgar’s previous sexual experiences had been, quite honestly, awful.  Groped at the docks by sailors, flashes of pain on the cultists’ letting table…  No, before Medivh, there had been nothing about sex that he was interested in.

But Medivh was different.  He took Khadgar’s body, it was true, but with permission.  Gently, with caresses and sweet words and things that made Khadgar tremble under his touch.  Now, Khadgar went to Medivh’s bed as often as he was permitted.  He had thought the thing between them was so intimate, so private…he couldn’t believe that Medivh had told someone.  Especially not Lothar.

Khadgar was so furious for a moment that he couldn’t find words, so he stared at his hands.  The bruises from the needles had faded.  Moroes was able to use the bigger veins in his arms most times, and had a lighter touch.  They almost looked normal.  Still a little pale, though.  He hadn’t gotten outside much.

“He told you?” he managed at last.

“I don’t care who else he fucks,” said Lothar, shrugging.  The implication of his phrasing made Khadgar’s eyes widen.  Lothar reached across and nonchalantly brushed a strand of hair behind Khadgar’s ear, dragging fingers down his neck as he leaned in close to whisper. “He says your mouth was made for sucking cock.  And your ass for taking it.”

“You’re a pig, Lothar,” Khadgar snapped. 

“Because I know what I want?” asked Lothar, sounding offended.  “Most people find that attractive.”

“Maybe most people lack perspective,” said Khadgar cryptically.  “Is this how you speak to everyone you want to bed, or only slaves?”

Lothar sat back, bemused.  “Why do you call yourself that?”

“Did you forget that I’m property?” Khadgar felt bitterness rising in his chest.  “I was bought and sold.  Moroes won’t tell me for how much, but that little green bag was pretty fucking heavy when he handed it over.”

“You’re not a slave.  You’re a…state secret, sort of.  The Guardian needs you,” said Lothar. “Azeroth needs you.”  His tone was gentler now.  “So.  Where did you come from, anyway?”

Khadgar weighed the question, wondering what he could say that would satisfy the wretched commander and make him go away.   He knew he ought to be buttering up to Lothar, if he intended to ask a favor regarding finding Callan, but couldn’t prevent the argumentative tone from entering his voice. “The Guardian doesn’t care where I came from.  Why do you?”

“I’m trying to get to know you.”  Lothar sounded slightly hurt at Khadgar’s defensiveness.  Perhaps he was being truthful.

“I’m from the north, in the Alterac Mountains.  A little village in the hills.  You wouldn’t know it.” Khadgar shrugged one shoulder dismissively.  He decided to skip the parts that Lothar didn’t need to know about.  “Came to Stormwind a few years ago, looking for work.  Didn’t find much, so I was living on the streets with…”  His voice trailed away as his heart tripped and stumbled into that familiar hole.  _Stapa._ “With some other kids.”

“And your family?” Lothar asked.

Khadgar shook his head mutely.  He wasn’t about to tell Lothar that this wasn’t the first time he’d been sold into a slavery of sorts, that his parents had turned him over to the mages of the Kirin Tor when he was just a child, in return for an obscene amount of money.  Better for Lothar to think they were dead.  They were dead, as far as Khadgar was concerned. He never wanted to see them again.

“And how did you fall in with the cultists?” prompted Lothar.  “Were they paying you for mana flow?”

“No.”  Another baleful glare was directed Lothar’s way.  “One of your Stormwind guards discovered I’m a mage.  He sold me to the cultists.  I didn’t know such things existed in Azeroth.”

He had Lothar’s complete attention now.  “A guard of Stormwind?  Are you sure?”

Khadgar nodded.  “He wasn’t wearing livery, but I recognized him.  He worked the beat by the docks.” He sighed.  “We had an altercation.  He was going to turn me in for assaulting a guard.”

“Did you?  Assault him?”

“He assaulted me first,” Khadgar replied, trying to keep the venom out of his voice and not succeeding.  “He was going to rape me.  Just for trying to feed a hungry little girl.  Just for a handful of fucking dried fish that were dropped in the dirt.  So I turned him into a sheep.”  He looked at Lothar defiantly, knowing the story probably didn’t make sense.

“Those are serious charges,” Lothar said softly.  He seemed to sense there was more that Khadgar wasn’t telling, but didn’t press him further.  “Would you know this guard if you saw him again?”

Khadgar looked at him sharply.  “No.  Maybe.  I don’t know.”  This was a lie, because the guard’s face was burned into his memory.  He hated that man, but didn’t know what business it was of Lothar’s.  “It was a long time ago.  Why would it matter?”

“Do you think guard should be allowed to continue in a position of authority, knowing what you know?”  Lothar was deadly serious now.  “What if he hurts someone else?  Would you be willing to help identify him?  He should answer for what he did.”

“Are you serious?” Khadgar’s disbelief was palpable.  “Your friend Medivh participated in exactly the same transaction when he bought me from the cultists.  And when he asks to fuck me, do you think I am in the position of saying no?  How is that any different?”

“Medivh would not force himself on anyone,” snarled Lothar, “and don’t you dare imply otherwise.”

Khadgar sniffed, unimpressed by the show of anger.  He raised one arm eloquently, pushing the sleeve back to show the needle tracks near his elbow.  “What do you call this?  A minor imposition?”

“You ungrateful little brat.”  Lothar clambered to his feet and hauled Khadgar with him.  “Medivh pulled you away from death’s door, and this is how you thank him?”

“If it weren’t for people like Medivh, sucking the life out of other people’s bodies, I wouldn’t have _been_ at death’s door!” Khadgar wasn’t yelling, but he was using a volume that he hadn’t touched in years. It felt good.  “You can’t light a man on fire, then ask for praise when you piss on him to put it out.”

“He is saving the world,” hissed Lothar, dragging Khadgar along by the scruff of his neck.  “How dare you malign a man that has sacrificed so much and asks for so little in return?”  He didn’t give Khadgar a chance to reply, and he didn’t let him stop and gather his abandoned book from the grass, either.


	9. Chapter 9

“Let go of me!”

“Shut up.”

Lothar marched the unwilling Khadgar all the way through the keep to Medivh’s rooms.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, the rooms were dark – no one was in at the moment.  In a display of unsurprising strength, Lothar casually picked Khadgar up at the waist and tossed him onto the bed. 

“So, you consider yourself a slave?” Lothar moved closer, hands on his hips. 

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Khadgar willed himself not to cower on the bed.  “What are you doing?” Khadgar asked, trying to put some strength into his voice but finding it much smaller than it had been outdoors.

“Bedding you, of course,” Lothar replied, pulling at his jerkin and dropping it on the floor.  “You want to act like you’re a slave?  Like Medivh’s just having his way in here and you’re not enjoying it?”  His shirt followed suit, and he began working on his belt.  “If that’s the way you want it…” Lothar’s voice trailed away and he shrugged sarcastically.

Khadgar’s eyes darted towards the door, then back at Lothar.  Should he yell for help?  Try to talk the insane warrior out of this?  He tried to estimate how much mana was flowing through his veins.  How many days had it been since Moroes sapped him?  Two days?  Three?  He might be at fifteen percent or thirty.  Not enough.  “Don’t touch me.”

“Your ‘master’ already gave me permission,” said Lothar with a smile that sent shudders through Khadgar’s stomach.  “He said I could fuck you until my cock fell off, if I wanted to.”

_Medivh didn’t say that,_ Khadgar thought desperately.  _He wouldn’t say that._ “I don’t believe you,” he said, staring at Lothar stubbornly. 

“Why not?” Lothar stared back.  His body was thickly muscled, covered with more scars than Khadgar could quickly count.  Khadgar’s eyes slid involuntarily downwards to Lothar’s groin, his heart hammering in his chest, then moved back up to Lothar’s face.

 “Because Medivh is not a monster,” said Khadgar.  “You can’t do this.”

“You’re property.”  Lothar moved to the bed and pulled Khadgar to the edge by his waist.  His thighs straddling Khadgar’s body, Lothar gripped each of his arms and forced them back above his head on the bed. Khadgar jerked against the grip, knowing from experience with Lothar’s manhandling that his efforts would be ineffective.  “I can do anything I want.”

Khadgar snapped his mouth tightly shut, afraid of what he might say to drive Lothar further into this madness.  Lothar bent over his face, nuzzling gently at his neck, then his tongue touching experimentally across his mouth. 

“Kiss me,” Lothar directed, yanking the captive wrists as if to get his attention.  Khadgar yelped at the pain caused by this, one wrist already bruised from Lothar’s earlier ministrations. Unwillingly, his lips parted and allowed Lothar’s tongue to move inside.  Lothar pushed in deeply, savoring the softness and forcing his jaw wider. 

Heavy moments passed, Khadgar’s heart thudding loudly in his ears as Lothar’s kiss explored and teased his mouth.  He pushed back with his own tongue, trying not to choke on the invasive sensations of being filled by another.    His mind was racing as he accepted the reality of what was unfolding.  _You can survive this, Khadgar,_ he reassured himself unconvincingly. _Just let him have what he wants.  It’s just a few minutes.  You can do it.  Just play your part._

Khadgar had been here before, and knew he would survive.  The feelings of helplessness and fear, he was familiar with.  The sudden, hot wash of anger moving through his body, though – that was new.

_No._

_Never again._

Anger flowed from his chest and settled somewhere behind the bones of his face, making him almost literally see red.  A sudden clarity came over Khadgar, and he realized that he’d rather be beaten to a bloody mess than be taken against his will.  He’d rather be broken into pieces than be destroyed from the inside out by invisible wounds, the kind that never seemed to heal long after the body had been made whole. 

_Lothar is not getting this without a fight._

Khadgar almost didn’t notice when Lothar pulled away from his face, so disconnected he’d become.  He seemed to be watching the encounter from just above his own body, as if his spirit had separated from the physical.  Lothar rubbed gentle fingers across Khadgar’s lips, now swollen and reddish. 

“Made for sucking cock, Medivh said.  I think he was right.”  Lothar’s voice came from far away, as he pulled his fingers back and stepped away from the bed expectantly.  He gestured at the loosened opening of his pants.  “Get down.  Use your mouth.”

Trembling, now more from anger than from fear, Khadgar slipped from the bed. He opened his mouth to comply…then closed it defiantly.  “If you put that in my mouth,” he said in a voice so calm it hardly sounded like his own, because he certainly wasn’t feeling calm inside, “I’ll bite your fucking dick off and spit it on the floor.”

Lothar stared at him, then laughed outright. “You would, wouldn’t you?” Flopping back on the bed, Lothar put his arms behind his head and stared at him mockingly.  “Just as I thought.  You’d make a horrible slave.”

“Wh-…what…?”  Khadgar stared back, not understanding.

“All that backtalk?  Completely unacceptable.  And you need to work on your groveling.  You don’t know what slavery is, Khadgar.  Nobody can make you do anything you don’t want to do, can they?” Lothar seemed terribly pleased with this pronouncement.  “You’re doing a great service to the realm of your own free will, even if it doesn’t always seem like it.”

“But I thought… You’re not going to…?” Khadgar’s voice trailed away, trying to control the shaking of his hands and voice.  Rather than having a soothing effect, Lothar’s words were driving Khadgar into a rage.  _A great service?  My own free will?  He’s completely delusional._

“Of course not.  Are you mad?” Lothar sat up.  “By the Light, kid, quit sniveling.  I was just making a point.  I would never hurt you.”

The dishonesty of this statement put Khadgar over the edge.  Lothar had left him battered and bruised every time they met – sometimes the marks were on his body, but they were always on his spirit.

Lothar was looking him up and down. “Although, since we’re already here-”

Khadgar’s fist was moving far faster than his mind could move to stop it – not that he would have, at this point.  He made contact with Lothar’s left eye socket at precisely the same moment that Moroes entered the Guardian’s quarters, stopping short at the sight of Lothar half undressed, being battered by Khadgar.  All three froze a moment, then Khadgar ran for his room with the fleetness of a deer, slamming the door behind him and letting Lothar make an explanation for the old mage.


	10. Chapter 10

Khadgar wanted nothing more than to confront Medivh at the next opportunity and demand an explanation for his offensive friend’s behavior, but he restrained himself.  Despite his arguments with Lothar, he well understood the service that his presence was providing to the Guardian.  It was more than just the mana – he provided comfort and affection, a quiet and safe haven for Medivh to retreat to when the burden of being the Guardian carried him low.  Medivh did not need to hear Khadgar whine about his interpersonal problems.

Moroes was not so coddled by Khadgar, and received more than an earful on the matter.  He listened neutrally to Khadgar’s frustrations, commenting at last, “Sir Lothar is a blunt instrument, lad.  Sometimes the best you can do is stay out of his way.”

“He was going to force me, Moroes,” said Khadgar, outraged.  “He was moments away from-”

“My assessment of the situation, although you did not ask for it,” Moroes interrupted gently, “is that he was trying to tell you not to wallow in your situation. That, and he is protective of the Guardian.  We all are.”

“He could have just said so,” Khadgar frowned.  “He didn’t need to force himself on me to convey that point.”  He held Moroes’ gaze resolutely.  “Sir Lothar is a bully.  He would never rut on you to make a point, would he?”

Moroes’ eyes twinkled unexpectedly.  “How do you know he hasn’t?” he asked with a rare, full smile.

Imagining Lothar putting moves on Moroes, Khadgar snorted with laughter despite himself. 

\--

It was Medivh who brought up the subject of Anduin Lothar some days later.  It had been several days since Khadgar’s last mana-letting session, which meant that he was feeling fairly well and Medivh was looking poorly.  They were sitting in the drawing room by the fire, drinking tea in quiet companionship and lost in their own thoughts. 

Khadgar had come to treasure these moments alone with the Guardian.  He usually spoke about whatever he’d done that day, sharing what he’d learned from the library and trying to weasel arcane knowledge out of Medivh, who seemed to welcome the distraction from the war-talk that certainly filled the rest of his days.  At times like this, Khadgar couldn’t help but wonder what life might have been like, had he stayed with his arcane training.  He could have been apprenticed to Medivh, or someone like him.  The thought was frustratingly useless, so he pushed it away.

“Do you get along well with Commander Lothar?” Medivh asked suddenly, fiddling with his mug of tea and looking up from the fire.

Khadgar glanced over, then away with a shrug.  Apparently Medivh had not heard about the black eye.  “He defends Azeroth well.  Many think he is a good man.”  He hadn’t answered the question at all, of course. 

Medivh nodded.  “He is a good man.  I’ve known him since childhood.”  Khadgar didn’t comment.  Some days, he didn’t think Medivh was a particularly good man, either, so perhaps was not the best judge of character.  None of this could be said, so he kept his mouth closed.

“He’s asked after you,” Medivh went on.  “He likes your spirit.  He’s asked my permission to…involve you…in some of his operations.”  Khadgar was bracing himself, his face growing tight as he wondered what Lothar would consider ‘operations.’  Had Lothar been telling the truth the other day?  He tried to betray no sign of his conflicted emotions to the Guardian, merely nodding in acknowledgement of the statement.

“I am loathe to involve you in this war, Khadgar,” said Medivh.  “For my own selfish reasons, of course, as I need you here.  But also for your own sake.”

_War operations.  Oh.  OK._

“I can fight,” Khadgar replied confidently.  He was suddenly eager at the thought of actually doing something other than lying on his back and reading. “I’m not a battle-mage, but I’m more than capable.”

“Are you?” Medivh was amused.  “You never told me where you received your arcane training.  What, exactly, do you know of combat?”

Khadgar met his gaze evenly.  “I’m sure you’ve guessed.”

“Perhaps,” said Medivh with a small smile.  “Why don’t you tell me?”

Taking a deep breath, Khadgar gathered himself.  “I was a ward of the Kirin Tor in Dalaran.  I was the Guardian Novitiate.  I left the Order four years ago.”  _Training to be your replacement, Medivh, until I renounced my vow._ He stopped speaking, and waited for Medivh to comment.

“Ah,” said Medivh.  “ _That_ Khadgar.”

Khadgar inclined his head solemnly.  “The same.”

_So, Medivh has heard of me.  Now it will come – the interrogation, the accusations, the ‘why did you betray our order and reject the opportunity that is only granted to one soul in a generation?’_

“Then it’s settled,” said Medivh, pursing his lips slightly.  “Any mage trained by the Kirin Tor is more than capable of assisting Anduin’s operations.”

_That’s it?_ Khadgar tried to hide his surprise.  Apparently, Medivh was not going to ask him uncomfortable questions about his past after all. _Most wondrous._ Not for the first time, he found himself grateful towards the Guardian in ways that tugged uncomfortably at his chest.

“He wishes you to train with his soldiers,” Medivh went on.  “Many of them are facing arcane assaults for the first time.  Practicing combat against a mage will help give them the confidence in their own abilities to confront these things on the battlefield.”  He smiled. “Given that you’ll be casting at significantly reduced power, we thought you’d be suited for this operation.  Less chance of anyone actually getting hurt.”

Thoughtfully, Khadgar considered the plan, looking for objections.  “Doesn’t Stormwind have mages that could assist?”

“Certainly, the capital retains mages,” Medivh acknowledged.  “But none of them are the former Guardian Novitiate.”

“You knew,” said Khadgar.  It wasn’t a question.

“Merely suspected,” Medivh replied with a smile.  “Will you do it?”

Khadgar was intrigued at the thought of doing something useful.  He didn’t take well to the life of an invalid.  Still, he emphatically did not want to spend more time involved with Lothar, so he grasped for another excuse.  “Won’t it waste my mana-essence?  You need it…for the medicines.”

Medivh shrugged halfway.  “Mana given in the defense of Azeroth cannot be considered a waste.  I am not the only person in the realm who could benefit from your resources.  Anduin has requested this thing, and I am supportive.”

“If you ask me to do this, I will,” said Khadgar at last.  “I’m here to serve you, Guardian.”

“Then I’m asking,” Medivh replied with a smile.  Khadgar smiled back.  He was finding there was nearly nothing that he could refuse the Guardian.

“Lothar has also expressed interest in bedding you,” Medivh added.  His tone was casual, but he watched Khadgar closely for a reaction.  “He asked for my consent some time ago, but I thought you needed to regain your strength.”

Khadgar swallowed uncomfortably and watched the flames dance in the hearth for a moment.  Looking anywhere except Medivh. “What did you tell him?” he asked the carpet.

“I was surprised that he had not already tasted that nectar,” said Medivh with a small shrug.  “Asking for my permission is quite…quaint.  Unlike Anduin.”

“He tried to, actually.” Khadgar was surprised to find the truth spilling out.  He hadn’t intended to bring that up.

“What did you tell him?” asked Medivh, echoing Khadgar’s earlier question.

“I blackened his eye.” Khadgar smiled politely over his cup. 

“Ah.” Medivh considered this for a moment, seeming taken aback by the revelation.  “I hadn’t realized you felt so strongly.”  He sat quietly for a moment, asking at last, “Would you consider joining us, perhaps?  Together?”

Khadgar swallowed.  _Time to stand my ground_ , he decided.  “Guardian…  I gave myself to you willingly…but I do not wish to bed your friends.”  Then, perhaps pushing things too far, he added softly, “I’m not a whore.”  Maybe that wasn’t strictly true anymore, but he didn’t know what else to say. 

“That’s not how I think of you, Khadgar,” said Medivh quietly.  “If you are uncomfortable with the idea-”

“I am at your service,” Khadgar said, his voice carefully controlled and emotionless.  “I will not refuse your directive.” Thinking back to the threats and coercions Lothar had made on the day of their first meeting, still vivid in his mind, Khadgar suppressed a shudder.  “Are you asking me to do this…?” his voice trailed away. He dreaded Medivh's reply.

“I’m not,” said Medivh quickly.  After a pause, he added, “It would please me if you would consider it.  But I am not asking.” 

Khadgar nodded, not quite able to hide his sigh of relief as Medivh asked if he’d had a chance to start the research project they’d discussed earlier, gracefully guiding the conversation to safer topics.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The training session was really not that bad.

Khadgar had been assigned to work with soldiers one on one.  He started by explaining various types of attacks they might face and then giving them a taste of the arcane.  Facing off in a dueling ring, each soldier had the opportunity to experience some of his offensive and defensive spellcasting.  Dipping conservatively into his mana, the spells he cast were almost gentle – a fraction of his full abilities.  Gradually, as the morning went on Khadgar’s confidence grew.  He realized that the soldiers were listening to his coaching and seemed to be grateful for his presence. 

Midway into the morning the commander-at-arms called for a halt.  Flopping gratefully to the ground, Khadgar sipped carefully from a skin of water and wiped the sweat from his forehead.  Best to not drink too fast and give himself a stomachache.  His strength was still far from what it could be.

Despite his lack of stamina, Khadgar was actually beginning to enjoy himself.  He’d almost forgotten what it was to be a mage, so long had it been since he used the arcane.  When he’d run away from the Kirin Tor, he’d been careful to not use magic unless he absolutely had to.  He’d been worried that they might be able to trace his whereabouts somehow, and didn’t want to take any chances.  Later, of course, he’d been mana-weakened and couldn’t cast properly even if he’d had the energy to.

Now, he was tired, but savoring the sweet after-sensations of spellcasting thrumming pleasantly through his body.  It was good to be a mage again.

Khadgar looked around surreptitiously, half-hoping he’d spot Callan somewhere on the training field, however unlikely it would be for a corporal to be out with trainees.  Instead, a familiar figure approached and he braced himself subconsciously.  Commander Lothar was always imposing, but especially so when fully armored and armed.

_By the Light, he’s a sight.  No wonder they call him the Lion of Azeroth._

“Done already?” Lothar called. 

Lothar’s lightly mocking tone set Khadgar on edge immediately.  “Just resting,” he said quickly, not wanting the commander to see how tired he truly was.  _The best way to handle Lothar is to show no weaknesses,_ he reminded himself.  _Gotta be tough as nails, Khadgar._

“Won’t be any resting on the battlefield,” Lothar observed, planting his sheathed sword on the ground and leaning on it.

“Good thing I’m not a soldier,” said Khadgar, refusing to be cowed by the implied rebuke.  He’d intended to put his differences with the commander aside, but was finding that Lothar had a way of getting under his skin without even trying.  Khadgar kept his face carefully neutral as he climbed to his feet. 

“That’s true,” said Lothar.  There was a touch of mockery in his voice.  “I’d thought you’d join us in the skirmishes, but if you’re worried about getting roughed up…”

_Why is he being deliberately provocative?  I didn’t want to be here.  He asked for it._ Khadgar wrinkled his forehead.  _Maybe he isn’t trying to be an ass.  Maybe he’s just…teasing?_   “Skirmishes?”

“Mock battles,” said Lothar.  “Team melees.  More of sport than anything dangerous, really.”

“Oh,” said Khadgar, uncertainly.  “I’ve never skirmished before,” he admitted.  “I could try.”

“Good.  We’ll put you on a team with some other beginners,” said Lothar.  He looked the mage up and down.  “Why aren’t you wearing any protective gear?”

“I don’t need it,” Khadgar replied automatically, realizing belatedly how flippant he sounded.  “I mean, for the one-on-ones, we’re all being very careful.  Besides, they didn’t have anything that I could use in the armory.”

Lothar frowned in disbelief.  “Well, you’d better find something.  Medivh will have both our asses if you get hurt today.  C’mon,” he said, heading for the makeshift armory tent.  “I’ll help you find something that fits.”

“It’s not that,” Khadgar began to explain, then realized that Lothar was not waiting for him.  He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath, then followed the commander across the field.

\--

“What’s wrong?  Just put something on,” said Lothar, sounding nearly as irritated as Khadgar felt.

Khadgar eyed the sizeable pile of protective gear gathered haphazardly on the floor, then looked back at Lothar with a frown.  Most of the pieces were leather, or chainmail, or a combination thereof – nothing suitable for a mage to wear.

“I told you, I’m not wearing this shit,” said Khadgar, losing his patience entirely.

“Get dressed,” said Lothar.  Whatever amusement had been in his voice earlier had fled, leaving behind only steel and ice.  “That’s an order.”

“Piss off.”  Khadgar’s defiance was not subtle.  A few weeks ago, he might have been more careful what he said to the commander.  Now, empowered by his increased health and a reminder of who and what he was, Khadgar was feeling less than compliant.  He was helping Lothar because Medivh had asked him to, but that didn’t mean he had to obey every stupid order that came out of the man’s mouth.  And this order was definitely stupid.  “I can’t wear this.”

Any reasonable person would understand why he was refusing to put on the gear.  However, Lothar was not choosing to be reasonable.  What should have been a simple conversation had rapidly devolved into an argument. 

Lothar snorted impatiently.  “Why not?”

Khadgar gestured at the gear.  “I’m a mage, not a pig-sticker.  Metal and leather impede the ability to channel the arcane.  Ever tried to sing an opera with a towel around your face?”

 “So, theoretically, to restrain a mage, I just need to wrap him in leather?” Lothar’s tone conveyed a spark of true interest, masked behind a thick layer of sarcasm.     

“Sure.”  Khadgar gave a sarcastic snort of his own.  “Why don’t you try that?”  He poked through the gear, hoping for something made of cloth.  The gleam in Lothar’s eye told him he could expect to be knocked on his ass during the skirmishes, frequently, and he’d rather do that with some protection.  Giving up with a sigh, he faced the commander and answered the question honestly.  “No, that would not be an effective restraint.  A dampened ability is still an ability.  It’s just a lot harder to spellcast when you’re wrapped in a cocoon and covered in hives.” 

Lothar frowned at him thoughtfully, nodding. Khadgar almost held his breath, willing the commander to be reasonable and stop arguing with him.  “Perfect,” said Lothar.  “Until you demonstrate that you can restrain your abilities, a dampened ability is just what we want.”

_Lothar?  Reasonable?  Obviously not._

“I have excellent restraint, Commander,” Khadgar retorted, tossing his head dismissively while he refrained from adding _unlike yourself._ “If you’re trying to get me killed today, why stop at inappropriate armor?  You could always tie one hand behind my back.  Or possibly you have a gag handy?  That would certainly be more effective-”

“Don’t tempt me,” snapped Lothar.  As he stepped closer, he seemed to get a little taller and broader.  Khadgar was embarrassed to feel himself shiver involuntarily, feeling some of his newly-regained confidence slipping away in the presence of the physically intimidating commander.  Lothar lowered his voice so that only Khadgar could hear his next words.  “I was under the impression that Medivh assigned me a mage, not a child.  I don’t have time to coddle you.  My trainees are on the field and waiting.  Will you get dressed, or will I have to dress you myself?”

Khadgar’s imagination played briefly with that prospect…and decided that Lothar was probably serious. _Wrestling me down to the ground, sitting on my chest and strapping leather onto my body?  Yeah, he’d like the opportunity, wouldn’t he?_   Fortunately, Khadgar’s snotty mouth managed to stay shut this time, and he kept his rudest thoughts to himself. He’d never actually worn leather gear; maybe it wasn’t as awful as everyone said it was.  And if he did break out in hives, then Lothar might finally see reason.  Either way, he wasn’t going to give Lothar an excuse to paw at him in public.

“Fine.”

“Good,” said Lothar.  He sounded surprised, perhaps expecting further argument.  “I’ll see you out there.”

\--

The skirmishes went something like this.  The soldiers were divided into teams of ten, with five members on the field.  Each side had a small battle flag to protect from the other team.  On the sidelines stood an additional five members for each team, waiting to relieve their teammates on the fly as fatigue set in.  Trainees were instructed to spend no less than thirty seconds on the field, and no more than two minutes before changing shifts.  Once a flag was successfully stolen and carried back to home base, the melee halted and they would line up again, switching sides of the courtyard for fairness.  Disarmament meant automatically rotating out for another team member, and receiving a “killing blow” required the trainee to leave the field without a replacement – leading the outnumbered team to an almost certain defeat.

The pace was furious.

Khadgar had no idea what he was doing.  His team huddled before the first sally, quickly outlining strategies involving defense and offense.   They’d obviously done this before.  “Mage, can you run?” The solider looked at him expectantly.  He nodded, stomach knotting.  “Good.  When the flag drops, I want you to run like hell.  Sprint to the flag.  Bring it back here.  We’ll run interference for you.  Daros and Eval, crush their wingers – make space for him.   I’ll defend our flag.  You other two are mid-field – rotate up and back as you see fit.  Remember, thirty seconds – then look to change.”

Standing nervously in the field, Khadgar licked at his lips, adrenaline coursing through his body.  The starting flag dropped.  Khadgar ran.  He ducked under a charging warrior, sensing Daros right behind him with a raging battle cry.  Daros met the opponent and clashed, both going down.  Bodies blurred around him, with grunts and clanging weapons.  He found himself forced sideways, avoiding another massive opponent.  Light, the battle field had not appeared this long when they started.  The flag was as far away as ever.  Khadgar dipped into his reserves and ran faster than he had thought capable, despite the confining leather gear.  He realized distantly that he was not remembering to breathe.    The flag was ahead, perhaps one hundred feet away, all his energies focused on that one, orange spot in the field of bright green.  He could see one defender between him, a powerfully built woman with a short sword and a shield.  The mage feinted to the left to open a path, and summoned his arcane energies to cast the blink spell that would teleport him forward twenty yards. 

She ran straight at him, and he cast the spell, feeling the familiar lurch as the teleport carried him forward…directly into her oncoming path.  His mind howled, _Feet!?  FEET, NOT YARDS, OH NOOOOOO._   He had nowhere to go.  They met in an awesome collision, his smaller, lighter body arching spectacularly through the air.  He crashed to the ground in a heap, fortunately on the sidelines of the arena.  The female warrior, unfairly, was unfazed.

Lothar was over him in a flash, bellowing “Change!  Change!” as he pushed another defender in to take Khadgar’s place as the melee continued.   Khadgar groaned weakly as the commander prodded him with a boot.  “Anything broken? No?  Get up, kid.  You’re not dead.”

Khadgar crouched low on the ground, chest heaving from the exertion.  This had been a bad idea.  His body ached all over and he felt pathetically weak. He was not well enough to be sprinting anywhere, let alone across a melee field. 

Of course, Lothar had made the exercise exceptionally more difficult for him.  He cursed the commander mentally as he peeled back one leather glove, seeing thick, red welts spreading across his hand.  From the fire that burned across his body, the allergic reaction was spreading elsewhere as well.

_Damn that man._

Khadgar refused to complain.  Forcing himself back onto his feet, Khadgar gritted his teeth and readied himself to enter the field again when called for.  He wouldn’t give Lothar the satisfaction of giving up.

\--

After what felt like an eternity later, the melee was called to a close.  Soldiers sprawled in various states of exhaustion on the sidelines of the field, laughing from the high that follows extreme physical exertion as they shed armor and weapons.  One of Khadgar’s teammates offered a skin of water then froze, staring.  “Holy shit.  Your face.”  Red streaks were spreading on the visible areas of Khadgar’s body, running up his neck and face in thick, angry welts.

Wordless, Khadgar was ignoring the other trainees, panting heavily as he stripped off the leather practice gear.  The helm, bracers, chest piece – everything – then his shirt, his pants, and underclothes followed in rapid succession.  Naked, Khadgar walked – no, stalked – towards the healer’s tent with barely contained fury.  The welts covered his body from head to toe, and despite the apparent discomfort he moved with a tragic sort of dignity. 

Looking up from across the field, Lothar stared in astonishment.  Shaking himself into action, he jogged lightly after Khadgar while calling for a priest.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 “Go.”  Khadgar lay on the pallet, writhing slightly.  The welts were burning, itching, by the Light, his entire body was on fire.  He was perspiring, groaning, he couldn’t hold still.  Lothar hovered impassively by his shoulder.

“Is it always this severe?” Lothar asked, sounding impressed.  He reached out curiously, dragging a finger across one ropy mark on Khadgar’s chest.

“ _Ow._ ” Khadgar’s voice rose, not caring how far the sound carried.  “Get the _fuck_ away from me.”

A calm, feminine voice responded.  “If you insist.”

Khadgar opened his eyes to see a young female priest standing in the doorway of the tent, clad in simple robes of white and gold linen.  She had flaxen hair and grey eyes that regarded him seriously. 

“Not you.  Him.”  Khadgar’s chin jerked towards Lothar.

Lothar and the priestess exchanged a glance, and she nodded towards the door.  He took her meaning quickly. “I’ll wait outside.”

The priestess murmured in low tones.  The Light of her healing prayers spilled across Khadgar in a soft, golden glow, and he groaned harshly as the burns across his body flared in response. 

The healing took longer than the priestess expected.   Problematically, Khadgar wasn’t exactly wounded.  His body was reacting to the force of his own magical energies.  The arcane had pulsed out of his body, but was diverted by the materials and channeled back into himself.  The welts were a cross between an allergic reaction and a magical burn, and her normal methods of purification weren’t completely effective.

The priest switched to first aid after a few unsatisfactory healing casts, giving Khadgar a small red potion to drink while she applied a soothing balm across his skin.   The redness was abating under her gentle ministrations, although he was not yet comfortable. 

The tent door rustled, and Khadgar was surprised to see Medivh enter. He seemed to assess the situation quickly, nodding at the healer as she moved away to give them privacy.

“Khadgar,” said Medivh gently.  “Are you alright?”

“I will be,” Khadgar replied, a little embarrassed now that the Guardian was present.  “It’s just an allergy.”

“I can see that,” said Medivh, lifting the sheet to look over Khadgar’s body.  “You must be quite sensitive.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you wear the leather gear?” Medivh admonished gently.  “You know better.”

Khadgar decided that honesty was the best policy.  “I didn’t know exactly what would happen, but I wanted to ask a favor from Commander Lothar,” he admitted.  “I’m trying to stay on his good side.”

Medivh’s brow furrowed.  “If you have need of anything, you must only ask.”

“Lothar’s not good with words,” Khadgar said tonelessly, remembering how Lothar had manhandled him in the bedroom to prove a point. 

“If Anduin could not or would not help you, you could have asked Moroes,” said Medivh softly, a touch of reproach in his voice.  “Or me.”

Khadgar nodded with a small sigh.  “I didn’t want to bother you, Guardian.” _More importantly, I don’t think you’d approve._

“Well, now I’m bothered.  I’m bothered to see you lying here in a sick bed when we’ve spent so much effort to keep you well.”  Raising his voice, Medivh spoke towards the entrance of the tent.  “Well?  Come in and see what you’ve done.”

Lothar entered sheepishly.  “I’m sorry, Medivh.  I didn’t know.”

Offended, Khadgar shot upright and gave Lothar a withering glare.  “You would have known if you’d just listened.”  Turning to Medivh, he continued pointedly, “See, Guardian?  Words.  Useless.” 

“You should have known better, Anduin,” chided Medivh.  He seemed to be trying not to smile. “Since when could mages wear leather?  I believe you owe Khadgar an apology.”

As if the act of apologizing might be physically painful, Lothar sighed heavily.  “My apologies, Khadgar,” he said at last.  “I should have listened.”

Mollified, Khadgar nodded.  He moved to clamber from the pallet and realized that his clothing was left on the far side of the training field.  Whenever he left the tent, he’d have to make the walk naked.  Sensing his problem, Medivh removed his own cloak and placed it around Khadgar’s shoulders. 

“It seems my ward has gone well beyond what was asked of him.  Wouldn’t you agree, Lothar?” Medivh sounded slightly too innocent. 

 _‘Ward’?  What does that mean, exactly?_ Khadgar perked up.  He didn’t know what that meant, but it was nicer than saying ‘my mana slave’ or ‘the young man I’m presently fucking.’

Lothar’s eyes narrowed, perhaps sensing a trap.

“I think you owe him a favor for his exemplary personal sacrifices made for the betterment of your soldiers.” Medivh prodded on.  “Doesn’t that seem fair?”

“Hm,” grunted Lothar noncommittally. “I’m indebted to you,” he said to Khadgar, without much feeling.  “Many thanks.” He left the tent then, giving Medivh a strange look as he left.

Khadgar felt a grin spreading across his face.  Medivh had extracted a favor out of Lothar like it was nothing.  “Thank you, Guardian.  That was neatly done.”

“My pleasure,” said Medivh, placing his hand possessively on Khadgar’s neck, his thumb moving up and down to feel the short hairs at the base of his skull.  “What is it that you need from Lothar?”

The grin faded from his face as quickly as it had appeared.  Khadgar looked away and wondered how much he could safely reveal to the Guardian.  “I want to ask him a question.  One of his soldiers I used to know, I was wondering…if he were still alive.  Given the war and all.”  He looked back at Medivh, trying not to let plaintiveness creep into his voice as he explained.  “I’m not permitted to leave the keep, and the guards don’t tell me anything.”

Medivh furrowed his brow incredulously.  “And you have to wring this information out of Anduin by sacrificing your body on the melee field?”  He shook his head.  “Why in the world wouldn’t you simply ask?”

“Lothar hates me,” Khadgar mumbled.  “I didn’t think he’d tell just me.”

“That’s ridiculous.  Lothar doesn’t hate you,” snapped Medivh impatiently. Seeing Khadgar’s sheepish look, he softened as he added, “I can ask him for you.  Who is it?”

Khadgar licked his lips nervously.  “Callan.  He’s a few years older than me.  He’s a corporal.  Or he was, when-” Seeing Medivh’s surprised reaction, Khadgar broke off speaking.  _Did I say something wrong?  Is Callan dead?  Dishonorably discharged from the army?_

“Interesting choice of friends,” Medivh said slowly.  Complicated emotions that Khadgar could not interpret were flickering across his face.

“We’re not friends,” Khadgar retracted hastily.  “He’s just someone I used to know.  You know him?” 

“I do indeed,” said Medivh. He was trying unsuccessfully to hide a small smile. “You needn’t worry – he’s alive and well.”

Ignoring Medivh’s strange behavior, Khadgar breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear it.”  _Good.  Now, I need to find a way to get him that letter…_

“It’s Sergeant Lothar now, I believe,” Medivh went on.  His smile was large and wide now.  “Promising soldier.  Takes after his father.”

 _Sergeant Lothar?  His father?  …Not…Anduin Lothar?_ Medivh’s eyes were glinting with amusement, and Khadgar realized it was true.  Callan was Lothar’s son.  He realized that his mouth had flopped open stupidly, so he forced it shut with a snap.  “I…I didn’t know,” he finally stammered. 

“Clearly,” said Medivh.  He asked curiously, “How did you know Callan?  Surely you did not meet in Dalaran…?”

Khadgar did not want to mention his search for Stapa, but he skirted closely around the truth.  “No.  When I was living here in Stormwind.   On the streets.  He was…kind to me.”  Medivh waited patiently, but Khadgar had nothing to add.     

“Ah. I see,” said Medivh slowly, although it was clear that he did not see.  “Would you like to see him again?  I could arrange a meeting…?”

“No, Guardian,” Khadgar said a little too quickly, his heart sinking.  If Callan was Lothar’s son, that would complicate his search for Stapa.  What if Callan told his father, and Lothar told Medivh?  Or worse, punished Khadgar himself for daring to reach beyond the confines of the keep?  “He wouldn’t know me anymore.  I was just hoping that he was well.”  Breathing a deep sigh, he forced himself to smile.  “Thank you for letting me know.”

Medivh shrugged gracefully.  “As you wish.”  Leaning forward, he surprised Khadgar by planting a kiss on the side of his face.  The Guardian was not normally affectionate outside of the bedroom and Khadgar was momentarily frozen by the action. 

Medivh spoke quietly, his lips brushing the fine hairs just above Khadgar’s ear.  “You see how simply that was handled?  There was no need for all this.”  Pulling back, a gentle hand guided Khadgar’s face until their eyes met.  “Promise me that you’ll not sacrifice your body again in this way to get what you need.”

Khadgar nodded to acknowledge the statement, knowing that Medivh would take it as agreement, although he didn’t intend it that way.  That wasn’t exactly a promise he could expect to keep.  “Sometimes that’s all I have, Guardian,” he said, mustering a weak protest.

“You also have a brain,” Medivh replied, the teasing smile appearing on his face again.  “Use that instead, hm?”

_Ah, good point._

Sheepishly, Khadgar nodded with greater sincerity. 

“Still, I think that’s enough training for a while,” said Medivh, looking him over.  “You’re exhausted.   Rest here, and I’ll send Moroes to help you back to the chamber.”

\--

As Moroes helped Khadgar to his feet and led him back to the keep, he mulled privately over Medivh’s choice of words, finding them more than a little strange.  For what was he doing in as Medivh’s ward, if not sacrificing his body for Azeroth?  Couldn’t Medivh see the inconsistency of his statements?  Even what they shared at night in Medivh’s bed was a sacrifice of sorts, no matter what Lothar said – any relationship built on threats and coercion was no relationship at all.

Khadgar’s heart ached to believe that Medivh cared for him, but his mind told him otherwise. 

In the Guardian’s chamber, Khadgar’s thoughts were momentarily discarded when Moroes guided him to the letting table and told him to lie down.

“I’m so tired, Moroes,” he begged.  “Please, can’t we wait a little while?”

Moroes shook his head.  “We’re already behind schedule.  We need to start now.”

Khadgar dragged himself onto the letting table, feeling something like acid moving slowly through his chest as he dropped Medivh’s robe and lay down.  Moroes moved efficiently around him, tsking over the faint traces of welts still rippled across Khadgar’s skin even as he inserted the needle into his arm.

As the familiar chill seeped into his body, Khadgar felt his will to resist slip away once again.  “Moroes,” he whispered, “Please.  I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Moroes did not reply, but in a rare display of affection reached for Khadgar’s free hand and held it gently, one thumb tracing across his knuckles in a soothing pattern. 

“Please,” Khadgar tried again, struggling against the semi-consciousness that accompanied the letting procedure.  “I’m not a slave.”

Moroes’ hand stilled.  “I do not enjoy this any more than you do, young one,” Moroes said quietly.  “We are not slaves, you and I, but we both serve the Guardian in ways that are sometimes uncomfortable. When you consider the alternative, does this not seem tolerable?”

 _No,_ Khadgar thought stubbornly, _living half-alive does not seem tolerable.  In fact, if this is so tolerable, why isn’t Moroes the one lying here on his back?_

“Why doesn’t he take your mana?” asked Khadgar suddenly.  Perhaps the letting, coupled with his exhaustion, had lowered his inhibitions.  Normally, he would never have asked Moroes such a question.  He actually pushed himself half upright, causing Moroes to jerk in alarm and place a warning hand on his chest. “Or any other mage’s mana?  Why does it have to be mine?  Can’t the Kirin Tor help him…?”

“Lie down,” said Moroes, pressing him lightly towards the table and not answering the question.  Of course.  “You’ll pull the needle out.”

Khadgar lay back obediently, thinking foggily.  There was nothing special about the mana-essence flowing through his body.  Yes, his essence was powerful – any future arch-mage’s would be.  But surely, if the Kirin Tor knew that Medivh was ill and needed mana-essence, there would be dozens of equally powerful arch-mage volunteers clamoring to donate…unless the Kirin Tor didn’t know that Medivh was ill.

That seemed important.  Medivh would not be purchasing mana-slaves from the dark market if the Kirin Tor knew he needed flow.  Why didn’t they know?

In that moment, Khadgar’s thoughts settled with acrid clarity even as he drifted away.  Whatever illness plagued the Guardian, it was one that he was keeping a secret.  Of course Medivh was concerned with his physical well-being; he was safeguarding a valuable asset.  After all, he needed to keep the mana flowing.


	13. Chapter 13

An insistent shake on Khadgar’s shoulder jerked him awake.  Moroes was stooped over the small bed in the side room, shining a candle in his face.  “Get up.  You’re coming with us.” 

Sluggish with sleep, Khadgar struggled to understand what was happening.  “Where are we going?” he asked, but Moroes had already left for the larger chamber. Khadgar scrambled from the bed and reached for his clothing and travelbag.  Entering Medivh’s rooms, he stopped sudden at the sight of the Guardian slumped wearily onto the bed.  His skin was grey and ashen, and he appeared to be fading in and out of consciousness. 

“What’s wrong, Moroes?” Khadgar was dismayed.  He’d never seen the Guardian like this, no matter how tired he’d been previously.  “Is he wounded?”

“There was an ambush.  They took heavy losses.  He pushed too far.  We need to get him to Karazhan,” said Moroes fiercely.  “Hold him upright while I cast the teleportation spell.”  Khadgar moved to the bed and pulled the limp Guardian upright, putting an arm under his shoulders and helping him to stand while Moroes scratched out the runes for his spell.  Although Khadgar was the taller of the two, his full strength hadn’t returned and he would be hard-pressed to carry the Guardian.  Fortunately, he hadn’t been mana-let since two days ago, and was feeling fairly strong and steady on his own feet.

Bluish light flared, and Khadgar felt the familiar jolt of arcane transportation.  When the light and residual smoke cleared, he staggered slightly under the weight of the Guardian and looked around. 

Moroes had ported them to a richly decorated, circular room.  Khadgar was vaguely aware that the stained glass windows and tapestries hanging on the wall were fashioned after the same symbol as the one embroidered on Moroes’ robes – the eye of the Kirin Tor. 

His attention was fixated on the glowing pool in the center of the room.  Pure arcane swirled in shades of white and blue, fed by the ley lines of raw power that sat underneath the tower of Karazhan.  He’d never seen anything like it.

“The font,” Moroes said, nodding urgently towards the pool and breaking Khadgar’s fixation.  “Help me carry him to it.”

Together, they maneuvered the Guardian to the edge of the pool, gently lying him down where his entire body was submerged in the light.  Khadgar pulled his cloak off, fashioning it into a small cushion under Medivh’s head.  Moroes had moved off to the side of the room, rustling around at a table there – preparing medicines, he said. 

Kneeling at the edge of the font, Khadgar gently stroked the sides of Medivh’s face, running his fingers along the reddish beard and pushing long strands of hair back from his face.  The Guardian was alive, but weakened.  Khadgar had never seen a mage in such a state, and didn’t know what to think.  It had to be the mysterious illness, he mused. 

Medivh muttered intelligibly, his eyes flickering open for a moment, disoriented.  Khadgar’s breath caught in his throat when, instead of the greenish-gray color he’d become accustomed to, the Guardian’s eyes flashed a bright, sickly green.  

“Moroes.”  Khadgar’s voice had gone tight and strange.  When Moroes did not respond he called more insistently.  “Moroes!  What is wrong with him?”

“Come over here.  I need you to lie down on the bed.  Take your robe off,” said Moroes, ignoring his question.

Reluctantly, Khadgar left Medivh.  Stripping off his clothing, he lay on the bed where directed and shut his eyes as Moroes swabbed his arm with something cold.  Pain lanced up his arm as the letting needle moved into his vein.  Khadgar focused on breathing deeply.  He knew the pain would pass, if he held still during the procedure.  After a few minutes it became easy to be still.  Mana-essence was dripping steadily from his arm into Moroes’ vial and being replaced with a familiar sense of lethargy.

“Moroes,” Khadgar called softly.  “Can I lie beside him?”

“No,” came the reply, as if from a far distance.  “The needle might come out.”

“He doesn’t want to be alone,” insisted Khadgar.  “He needs me.”

“You can be with him later.  This is how you can help him now.”  Moroes brushed his shoulder comfortingly.  “Rest.”

\--

When he woke later, he was cold and weak from the letting.  Moroes must have taken nearly everything that he had.  Blearily, he opened his eyes a slit, and saw a familiar tangle of auburn hair across the bed.  Making a monumental effort, Khadgar forced his heavy limbs to bring him against the warmth of Medivh’s bare back.  Pressing his lips against the smooth skin, he tried to sense what was wrong with the Guardian.

Medivh was weighed down by the great burden of responsibility that he carried, to be sure, but there was something else.  What had Khadgar seen in his eyes in the font?  That was no secular illness.  That was magic.

“I love you,” he whispered into Medivh’s body, realizing as he spoke the words that they were true.  “Stay with me, Medivh.  Be well.”  Khadgar was drifting away, not really aware of what he was saying, trying to pour comfort into the still body beside him.  “I’ll be your light.  Let me take your darkness.  You don’t have to carry it anymore.”

_Let me be your light.  Let me take your darkness.  Light.  Darkness.  Light…_

Khadgar was asleep, one arm flung possessively across Medivh’s body.  Beside him, Medivh released his breath in a shudder.  Finding Khadgar’s fingers, he pulled them gently to his mouth and kissed them.

“You already are my light,” he whispered. “You are my redemption.” 

\--


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

“Well.  Aren’t we a sorry pair?”  Medivh sat upright in a chair across from Khadgar’s sprawling form on the bed.  He looked remarkably better, no small part due to the distillation of Khadgar’s mana-essence now flowing through his body.  “You look about as well as I feel, Khadgar.”

Khadgar still felt like a piece of sopping-wet bread and thought he looked about as bad, but he managed a smile for Medivh’s sake.  “You do look better,” he said.

“Thanks to you,” replied Medivh, inclining his head in a weary but graceful nod. “And Moroes.” 

“What happened?”  Khadgar asked. “Moroes said there was an ambush.”

“We were betrayed.” Medivh’s voice turned brittle.  “The half-orc, Garona, was attempting to arrange a treaty between one of the orcish factions believed sympathetic to our cause.  King Llane took a regiment to Blackrock Spire to parlay with the chieftain.  When they attacked, I was above, at the top of the canyon, defending our retreat.”  He spoke sorrowfully.  “I gave everything I had…but it wasn’t enough.  I couldn’t stop all of them.”

“Who could?” snapped Khadgar, surprising both of them with his frustration.  “You cannot save the realm by yourself.”

“I am the Guardian,” Medivh replied softly.  “It is my purpose.  It is why I exist.”

“It’s too great a burden for one person to bear,” Khadgar insisted.

“That’s why I have you,” said Medivh, earning a small smile from Khadgar, although he didn't quite agree.

“What of the King?  Commander Lothar?  Were they…?” Khadgar was afraid to ask, and was surprised at how his heart clenched at the thought of anything happening to Lothar.  Interesting.  He didn’t particularly care for the commander, but for Medivh’s sake hoped that he was well.

“I don’t know,” admitted Medivh.  “I sent Moroes back to Stormwind to report.  He should return soon, after he’s had some time to rest.  We’re on our own for a little while.”  He smiled, trying to lighten the gloom.  “I don’t suppose you know how to cook, do you?”

Khadgar shook his head mutely.  “No.  You mean, other than conjured food?  Well,” he amended, “I can make eggs, and roast meat, and spiced bread.  If you like it burnt.”

“That does not sound appealing.  Stay here and rest.  I’ll figure something out.” Standing, Medivh leaned over the bed and kissed Khadgar’s mouth deeply before leaving the room, sending silly little tingles down his spine. 

\--

Feeling stronger that evening, Khadgar wrapped himself in blankets to stave off the chill and went for a walk in the courtyard below the main tower of Karazhan.  Medivh had turned melancholy and was not interested in company.  So Khadgar walked, taking in the breathtaking sight of the alabaster spire rising high into the golden light of late afternoon.  He was fascinated by the white lines of arcane magic that ran up the tower, culminating in a bright beacon of energy at the top.  Dipping his hand into the lines, he felt a pleasant humming sensation, and he his cheek leaned against the tower to soak it up.

There was a screeching cry from over his shoulder, causing him to start in alarm.  Whirling, he raised his hands to cast a defensive spell that would have been less than effective.  He stopped short as a large gryphon bearing the Stormwind sigil made a heavy landing some yards away from Khadgar’s place by the tower.  To his surprise, Commander Lothar jumped from the bird’s back, slapping it lightly on the beak before removing its harness and turning it out to presumably hunt for a meal.  He approached Khadgar with movements that suggested someone very old or very tired.  None of the swagger than Khadgar had come to associate with Lothar was present.

The pair looked each other over for several heartbeats.  Lothar nodded curtly.  “Where is he?”

“Inside,” said Khadgar.  He worked to keep his voice neutral, not knowing what ill news Lothar might be bringing.  _What if the king is dead?_

“Up?” asked Lothar, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” nodded Khadgar.  “At the font.”

“Damn it.  Always those fucking stairs.  He should install a lift,” grumbled Lothar.  “I don’t suppose you could portal…?”

Surprised, Khadgar laughed sharply.  “That’s why I’m down here.  I came down, but I don’t have the strength to go back up.  I’ve been hoping he’ll have mercy and teleport me.”

Lothar sighed, resigned to his fate.  “See you at the top.”

\--

Khadgar took his time moving up the stairs.  He reminded himself that his weakness meant that Medivh was strong, which was what mattered.  Still, it was frustrating to move like an invalid at the ripe old age of twenty.  As he neared the top, he began hearing strange echoing sounds moving through the stairwell.  Voices, maybe.  Grunting.  Were they arguing?  Dizzy, he sat down to clear his head, and realized what was happening.  Somebody was having sex.

_Not ‘somebody.’ Medivh and Lothar are having sex,_ he forced himself to admit.  Anger, sour and hot, was burning sluggishly through his chest at the thought.  _Why is he bedding Lothar when he sent me away earlier? What can Lothar give him that I can’t?_   

Having come all the way up the innumerable stairs, Khadgar was loathe to go back down, yet he didn’t want to interrupt their privacy.  He thought perhaps he could slip past unseen and sequester himself into an alcove until it was safe to make an appearance.  Moving slowly, leaning on the wall to support his shaky legs, Khadgar hesitatingly entered the chamber.

He was immediately captivated by the sight of Medivh and Lothar on the bed.  Medivh was facedown, on all fours, his hair gone reckless around his face, which was presently buried in a pillow.  Lothar was mounting him from behind and fucking him hard.  Every thrust of his hips sent another deep groan of pleasure from Medivh’s throat, somewhat muffled by the pillow but loud enough to make Khadgar blush.  He hadn’t known Medivh liked things like that.

Swallowing hard, Khadgar felt his own body responding to the sight and sounds of pleasure. Embarrassed, he stepped forward into the chamber, intending to sneak by, and was horrified to find Lothar’s sharp blue eyes staring right at him.  Their eyes connected for a long, uncomfortable moment, until Khadgar fled for the kitchen area, moving more quickly than he’d thought his tired body could manage.

Slamming the door behind him, Khadgar was surprised to find hot, angry tears threatening to boil down his face.  Some part of him had already known that the two were lovers.  They’d said as much to him on different occasions.  But knowing it and seeing it were two different things.  The sight of the man he cared about most, being fucked by the man he despised, was burning into his retinas.

_Well, at least the King isn’t dead.  Probably.  I doubt they’d be fucking if he were,_ Khadgar thought, looking around the room savagely.  _I need to break something._

\--

A few hours later, the kitchen was impeccably clean.  The dishes were washed, the oven scrubbed, even the floors were mopped.  Khadgar had worked furiously at first, taking his temper out on the poor cutlery and pans from the meal Medivh had prepared.  Then, as his energy waned, he continued cleaning out of sheer stubbornness.  He wiped down the cupboards, washed the window sill, scrubbed the grout between the ornate countertop tiles.  He cleaned until his hands were shaking.   He was unwilling to admit that he was exhausted, because that would mean he’d have to leave the kitchen.  Leaving the kitchen would mean facing Medivh.  And Lothar. 

Finally, Khadgar slumped on the floor and rested his head against a cupboard.  Childishly, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.  _I’m just going to have to sleep here,_ he thought hopelessly, aware of how ridiculous he was being.  Medivh would not appreciate the immaturity.  However, he wasn’t presently in the frame of mind to care what Medivh thought.

Eventually there came a light tap on the door, then Medivh entered quietly.  He took in the exquisitely clean kitchen, and the grubby and tired Khadgar on the floor.  Stepping over Khadgar’s discarded mop and bucket, he squatted down and sighed.  “Are you coming to bed?”

“No,” Khadgar replied snottily. “I’ll sleep here.”

“Come on.” Medivh tugged at his shoulder.  “Nobody sleeps on the floor in Karazhan.  We don’t live like that.”

Suddenly giddy from the emotional release he’d undergone, Khadgar giggled.

“What?” Medivh asked, sounding bemused.  “We have a perfectly good bed.  There’s room enough, and I’ll be in the middle if you want-”

“I was born on a dirt floor in my parents’ home,” Khadgar choked. “I slept on the streets of Stormwind.  I think I can handle the kitchen floor.”  Laughing helplessly, Khadgar realized that his furious anger had dissipated somewhere between the shining sink and the now-filthy bucket of water.  He was just sad and disappointed.  Sad that he could never be with Medivh the way Lothar was, in a real relationship not involving duress and manipulation, and disappointed that he’d forgotten that long enough for his foolish heart to become attached.

“What news does Lothar bring?  Did he talk to Moroes?” Khadgar forced himself to be more serious.

“Callan is dead,” Medivh replied flatly.

Khadgar’s blossoming spirits withered instantly.  “Oh, no,” he whispered, taking Medivh’s hand.  “Not Callan.  What happened?”

Medivh pulled away, then seemed to regret the harshness of his motion and placed his hand on Khadgar’s knee.  “He died in the ambush.  It was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Khadgar said automatically, his heart breaking at the thought of kind, gentle Callan being cut down by savage beast-warriors.  “How is Lothar…?”

“Not well.  How could he be?” Medivh shrugged bitterly, but without vigor.  “It _was_ my fault.  I cast a defensive spell that split the canyon in half.  Most of the orcs were on one side, and the troops on the other.  Callan was on the wrong side.  Lothar saw his son die, murdered in cold blood, and I did nothing to stop it.”

Khadgar didn’t speak.  He could see that Medivh had added another burden onto the weight he already bore.  Anger was part of the healing process, though, and Khadgar knew he couldn’t smooth away the pain.

“At least Llane survived.  I wasn’t a complete failure.”  Medivh’s face was twisted up in pain, and he rose with a lurch.  “Come to bed now, Khadgar.  We’re returning to Stormwind tomorrow.  Moroes will want to milk you again.  You should rest while you can.”

Khadgar nodded, subdued now.  Foolishly, he’d forgotten for a while why he was here.  If Medivh wanted him in bed, that’s where he’d be. 

Lothar was asleep on the far edge of the bed.  Moving quietly so as not to disturb his rest, Khadgar changed into his nightshirt and took the opposite, far edge of the bed.

Despite herding Khadgar into bed like a sheepdog chasing an errant sheep into a paddock, Medivh did not join them for some time.  Instead, he sat in a chair by the fire, staring into the flames until the coals burned low.

\--


	15. Chapter 15

Medivh was wrong, and they did not leave Karazhan the next day.

The Guardian was not feeling well enough to safely cast a transportation spell, or any other major exercise of his arcane abilities.  Somehow, his skin was managing to look both grey and pale at the same time, causing Khadgar and Lothar to unanimously overrule his weak protests and send him to bed.  

Standing a short distance away, the pair argued in hushed whispers about what to do next.  Lothar wanted to fly Medivh back to Stormwind, riding double on the gryphon.  Imagining what kind of disasters might unfold if Medivh woke disoriented on the back of a gryphon, Khadgar argued that they should stay and wait for Moroes.   Khadgar thought he might be strong enough to manage the teleportation spell himself, but since he’d never actually done it, Lothar refused to let him try. 

Finding themselves in begrudging company for the next several hours, Khadgar decided to disappear for a while.

Khadgar was drawn to the library the way others might be drawn to a temple.  Walking reverently among the stacks, Khadgar felt calm and reverent.  All the knowledge of the world seemed to be in Karazhan’s towering bookcases.  He traced curious fingers along the spines of Medivh’s great tomes, as if he could absorb the information by mere touch.  The collection was organized after the same manner as the Kirin Tor’s own impressive library in the Violet Citadel where Khadgar had previously studied the arcane.  He wandered aimlessly at first, almost as if he were afraid to admit what he were looking for. 

When he found himself in front of a shelf of books on darker magics, it seemed almost as if by accident.  There were works on necromancy.  Shadow magic.  Fel.  Chaos.  Void.  Demonology.  Rows and rows of books on the darkest, most dangerous types of magic and the users who wielded them. These types of tomes were not typically accessible to novitiates in Dalaran, so he didn’t know exactly what to expect.

Khadgar cleared his mind of distractions.  

Letting a trickle of arcane flow from his fingertips, he spoke a short incantation and saw the familiar blue light circling in front of his palms in response.  Khadgar breathed deeply, then shut his eyes.  His hands brushed methodically along the rows of books.  He didn’t have a specific spell for the type of scrying he was trying to perform – he was moving with pure instinct.  Incidentally, this was one of the things that had gotten him in trouble with the Kirin Tor – a tendency to vary from the safe and trodden path, creating his own spells on the fly with little regard to the tedious and time-consuming testing process preferred by the Order.

Khadgar was entirely attuned to the books in front of him.  He was sensing through the arcane, trying to find Medivh’s essence lingering on the shelves in front of him.  This was difficult, because of course the books had been handled over and over again over the hundreds of years they’d been catalogued in the library.   However, he persisted patiently, likening the spell to smelling with his fingers instead of his nose. 

A faint touch here, very old and dry, not what he was looking for at all….ah.  There.  The book under Khadgar’s hand almost sizzled with energy.  This one distinctly bore the master mage’s imprint.  Without opening his eyes, he pulled the book forward. Continuing methodically, he worked his way through the entire section.  Six books had responded to his scrying spell – three of those seemed more sensitive than the others, so those were the ones he pulled from the shelf and stuffed into his travelsack.  He would have liked to take all six, but there wasn’t room in his bag and he didn’t want to explain to Medivh or Moroes why he was stealing books from Karazhan.

Breathing a sigh of relief at accomplishing his purpose without interruption, Khadgar let the spell fade from his mind and hastened from the library. 


	16. Chapter 16

Rounding a corner, Khadgar almost wet his pants when a dark shape loomed in front of him. 

_“Fuck!_ ” he gasped, recognizing Commander Lothar just before his heart stopped in his chest.  "I thought you were a haunt."

Lothar had jumped, too, and they regarded each other warily.  “This place gives me the creeps,” said Lothar at last. 

Khadgar nodded.  He knew what Lothar meant.  More than once, he’d felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, as though someone – or something – were watching him.  “I’ve been having nightmares since I got here,” Khadgar admitted.  Some of the strangest, most arcane-influenced dreams he’d ever had.  He almost suspected they were visions, but that was nothing he’d ever shown a talent for previously.  Karazhan was a strange and powerful place. 

“It didn’t used to be like this,” Lothar went on.  “Abandoned.  Spooky.  We used to visit for the feast of Winter Veil, me and Callan.”  He waved a hand around.  “Have you had a chance to explore much?”

“A little,” Khadgar replied.  Having a normal conversation with Lothar was…strange.  Khadgar found himself disarmed, still thinking of poor Callan, and he made special effort to keep his hesitations about Lothar at bay.  “I was in the library.”

“I can tell,” said Lothar, shooting him a grin that wasn’t all smirk.  “You’re covered in dust.”

As he said this, Khadgar felt his nose prickling and sneezed as if on cue, causing them both to laugh and easing some of the tension.

“Do you have a good head for heights?” Lothar asked.

Khadgar nodded easily, wondering what Lothar was getting at.  “Of course.  I’m a mage.”  Seeing Lothar’s blank look, he explained, “We have spells to protect against falls.  It’s not an issue.”

“Good,” said Lothar.  “Let’s get out of here for a while.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Khadgar nodded.

\--

Lothar led him easily through Karazhan, demonstrating that he’d indeed been there many times before.  He commented briefly as they passed through various rooms, sharing some of the history of the place and giving Khadgar a better idea of where he was. They exited into the main courtyard, and Khadgar blinked in the hazy afternoon sun.  Lothar’s gryphon was resting lazily, soaking up warmth from the flagstone tiles, her long, lion-like tail lashing as they approached. 

“Come closer,” said Lothar to Khadgar, patting her on the beak.  “Let her smell you.”

Trying not to hold his breath, Khadgar approached the massive creature cautiously.  Smell him she did, whuffing directly into his face and cocking her head to one side.  Following Lothar’s nod, Khadgar cautiously raised his hands and felt the smooth, hard beak.  She held very still as his fingers moved upwards, digging between the small feathers that covered her face.

Khadgar flinched when she clicked softly, then butted her head against Lothar. 

“She’s a good bird, isn’t she?” Lothar crooned, sounding very unlike himself.  “Pretty girl, what a good birdie.”  Turning to Khadgar, he said, “If you rub under her feathers with your hand, you’ll be her new best friend.  Feels real good.”

Khadgar did as instructed, tentatively digging his fingers into her feathers at first, then more robustly when he saw how she enjoyed the sensation.  “What’s her name?” he asked.

“Her proper name is ‘New Dawnwing at Dusk’,” said Lothar.  “We call her Dawny.  Gryphon naming is complicated business,” he added, seeing Khadgar’s amused expression.  “Every active gryphon has a unique name, usually with a nod to the pedigree lines.   Dawny here hatched from ‘Golden Duskerwing’ and ‘Newfeather Dawn.’  Big name for a little bird, though.  Started out no bigger than my boot.”

Lothar talked on for a spell, most of his words flowing across Khadgar’s consciousness without sticking.  Khadgar was noticing how light of the late afternoon settled across Lothar’s face with a warm, glowy effect. Much of the hardness seemed to have drained away and Khadgar was entranced by this peek behind the curtain of strength.  He thought that perhaps he was seeing for the first time the person who loved Medivh so fiercely and raised a son as gentle as Callan. 

_Callan is dead._   Khadgar’s heart stumbled with remembrance, and he sighed sharply.

Misinterpreting his sigh, Lothar broke off, shuffling his feet almost embarrassedly.  “Sorry.  I’m rambling.  Once I get started on gryphons, it’s hard to stop.  Ready to ride?”

Khadgar stared at him, unable to hide the wild grin breaking across his face. 

_What?  Me?  I get to fly?_

\--

The ride on Dawny’s back was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.  Khadgar rode in front of Lothar, hunkered low in the saddle and clinging tightly to the pommel. 

“Don’t pull,” Lothar had admonished.  “She knows what she’s doing.  Just let her fly.”  His hands circled Khadgar’s waist to hold the reins, his body tight against Khadgar’s backside.  Surprisingly, Khadgar didn’t feel as though the grip were sexual or intimidating – just a solid, strong hold to keep them both secure on the gryphon. 

Perhaps even Lothar saw the wisdom of not initiating a brawl several hundred feet in the air.

The gryphon soared high into the sky, gliding easily through the forested hills that surrounded Karazhan then wheeling back to lazily circle the towers.  After the first few moments getting used to the sensations of flying, Khadgar was enjoying himself immensely.  From above, it was shockingly clear just how abandoned Karazhan had become – roofs fallen in, plants overgrown, and not a soul to be seen. 

When the gryphon finally began her descent, Khadgar thought the ride was over far too soon.  As he slid from the creature’s back and felt his legs shaking, he realized that he hadn’t the strength to cling much longer anyway.

“That was incredible,” said Khadgar, meaning it completely.  “You are lucky to have her.”

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Lothar spoke with quiet pride.  “She belongs to the crown, of course, but Llane lets me borrow her.  Commander’s privilege.”

Lothar sent the bird back into the air on her own with a slap on her hindquarters, then gave Khadgar a similar whack on his backside. “Not bad for your first flight, kid,” he said without malice. 

Khadgar staggered from the blow, catching his balance heavily on the courtyard wall, wondering if Lothar intended to keep his record of bruising Khadgar with each visit.  He choked down the ‘ _fuck off_ ’ that threatened to spill out, forcing himself to pause for a moment before turning to face the commander. 

“Lothar.  I’d like to tell you something,” Khadgar said calmly.  His tone was neutral, maybe even a little friendly, like he was simply sharing information.  Which he was.  “Whenever you’re rough with me, it leaves bruises.  I thought maybe you didn’t know.”

Lothar stared at him.  “What do you mean?”

“My wrists, my side.  Every time you touch me, I’m worse for the wear.”  Khadgar shrugged as if he didn’t care.  “I never used to be so frail, but it’s the mana-letting.”

“I didn’t know,” said Lothar.  His voice was strangely subdued, and Khadgar believed him. 

“Of course,” said Khadgar agreeably.  “How could you?  I never said anything.”  After a hesitation, he added, “Medivh said that I should try talking to you.  He’d like for us to…get along.”  He looked at Lothar to see how he was taking this. 

_Does Lothar know what I mean?  Us…getting along…together?_

Lothar was looking back, that ridiculous golden afternoon light making magic of his rugged face, blue eyes glinting with humor.

“I think,” Khadgar continued carefully, “that we could get along.  For Medivh’s sake.  If I stopped provoking you.”  _There.  He’d said it all._   “What do _you_ think?”

“Don’t stop provoking me,” said Lothar, grinning.  “I like it.”  More seriously, he added, “You’re right.  We ought to get along, for Medivh’s sake.”

“He means a lot to me,” Khadgar said. 

“Yes,” Lothar agreed.  “He has that effect on people.  Shall we make peace?”

“Alright.”  Khadgar took the proffered hand and shook carefully.  Lothar’s skin was rough and dry – hands that were actually used for something other than reading and spellcasting, unlike his own. 

The pair stood against the wall and watched the sun beginning to dip behind the hills, streaking the sky with beautiful shades of pink and orange as the shadows lengthened. 

Many moments passed before Khadgar spoke again.  “I’m sorry about Callan.”

“Medivh tells me you knew my son,” Lothar said quietly.

Khadgar nodded.  “I met him once.  In Stormwind.”  Wind whistled eerily through the courtyard, blowing Khadgar’s dark hair back from his forehead and shivering across his body.  “He…was good to me.  He save my friend’s life.”  He hesitated, then reached into his travelsack.   The letter he’d written to Callan was still there, worse for the wear from being dragged around from place to place.  Slowly, he held the letter out to Lothar.  “I was going to give him this.”

Khadgar almost held his breath as Lothar took the letter and scanned the contents quickly.  He wasn’t sure that he was making the right decision.

“I remember that day,” Lothar said at last, folding the letter carefully.  “Callan had blood all over his clothes.  I thought he’d been fighting. He told me about the beggar girl, how she lost her arm.”

“I didn’t know he was your son,” Khadgar said honestly, adding, “Not that it would have mattered.  He was a good man.  I’m sorry I didn’t know him better.”

“So.  You’re looking for Stapa?” Lothar sounded curious, not angry.

“I want to,” Khadgar said miserably, “We only had each other.  The last time I saw her was the day I was taken-” He’d been about to say, ‘taken into slavery’, but knew how Lothar would respond to that.  He swallowed.  “Taken by the slavers.  I told her to wait for me in the alley.  Then he took me, and…” Khadgar shuddered.  “I just hope he didn’t find her.  He knew who she was.  He was going to hurt her, if I fought back.  And I fought back anyway.”  His voice broke.  “She was only a kid.”

Lothar stared across the courtyard.  “And you thought Callan would help you find her?”      

“Maybe.  I didn’t know who else to ask.”  Khadgar blinked angrily at the tears that kept creeping out. “Callan wasn’t like other people.” Turning away so Lothar wouldn’t see him cry, Khadgar rubbed at his face earnestly with a sleeve.

“No,” said Lothar, his voice choked with sorrow.  “He wasn’t.”

Khadgar felt Lothar’s hand on his shoulder, then he was pulled against warmth of his chest. 

“Street kids are tough, Khadgar,” said Lothar.  “She might be out there yet.”

Khadgar nodded, embarrassed at how his nose was leaking onto Lothar’s jerkin.  He might have pulled away, but Lothar’s arm continued to hold him firmly, so he leaned close and accepted the comfort.

“We should check on Medivh,” Khadgar whispered at last, twisting his head away to look at Lothar’s face.  “We’ve been gone for hours.”

“Aye,” agreed Lothar. 

They looked at each other, then at the waiting stairs.  “Shit.”

Impulsively, Khadgar poked Lothar’s shoulder.  “I’ll give you a silver piece if you carry me.”

“Fuck that,” said Lothar, brow furrowed.  “You don’t have any money, anyway.”

“No,” Khadgar agreed, grinning.  “I don’t.  Do you take other forms of payment?  I can recite counterspells to the fifth register…?  Some mages say it’s almost like poetry.”

Lothar shuddered.  “Please don’t.”  He hesitated, perhaps sensing Khadgar’s playfulness but not knowing how far it was safe to push in this new territory of ‘getting along’ that they were beginning to explore.  “I do owe you that favor for the leather incident…but I don’t know that I owe you a seventy flights of stairs worth of a favor.”

“No,” said Khadgar.  He looked away over the courtyard.  “I’m saving that for something else.” 

Khadgar dragged his eyes back to Lothar.  He was not entirely sure that the moment was right, but leaned in carefully anyway.  When his lips brushed softly against Lothar’s mouth, it more of a question than a kiss.  Lothar did not pull away, and Khadgar pushed gently with his tongue, deepening the kiss and sliding his hands around Lothar’s waist.  His heart was pounding, blood rushing through his head, and Lothar was kissing back, gently. 

Moments passed before Khadgar pulled back, searching Lothar’s face.  _That…wasn’t awful.  I think I can do this._  

“Would that suffice?  For the stairs?”

Lothar shook his head doubtfully, a smile playing around his lips.  “That’s a lot of stairs for one kiss.”

Wrinkling his forehead, Khadgar replied, “One kiss per flight, then?”

Now Lothar broke into a grin.  “That’s more like it.”  He poked at Khadgar’s travelsack on the ground with a boot.  “Do you expect me to carry that bag of bricks, too?”

“It’s books, not bricks,” Khadgar objected, indignantly slinging the bag over his shoulder and turning for the tower.  “We can negotiate on the way up.”


End file.
